


lover, i'll wait

by orphan_account



Series: lover i'll wait for you always [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Australia, F/F, Femlock, Gen, Genderswap, Minor Character Death, fem!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2012-11-06
Packaged: 2017-11-14 21:17:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 21,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Genderswap semi-AU: fem!Sherlock and fem!John meet at high school, before a long separation that leads them into their canon world. Joan has a crush from Day One. Sherlock isn't so sure. Very slow. Friendship only for part one. Set in Australia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Australian city languished in the heat, trapped between the sea and the wasteland of the desert, with only a thin line of hills to protect it from that side. Despite the early morning there was no coolness, no fresh breeze or even the kind shelter of shade. The air itself was stifling hot, turning everything into a sticky kind of wreck.

Joan lay back in her car, music blaring and arms stretched out from her sides to relieve her of contact with her own skin. She had pulled her dress up to her hips, and unbuttoned the top so that the very small breeze could cool her chest and belly as best it could.

When she closed her eyes she tried to imagine the cabin by the lake a good four hours’ drive away, where the wind picked up the cool air above the water and brought it to her, and any time she needed she could slip into the water and sink away from the sun.

It was only the third day back at school, and already she was longing for the holidays again. Suffering in the summer was grand old Australian tradition, but it was much more enjoyable with a glass full of icy lemonade, sand between toes and a lake stretching out towards the horizon.

None of the excitement about returning to school from previous years stuck with her. Like Christmas, it had only been the memory of years gone past that had kicked her out of bed on Monday morning, eagerly pulling on her dress and lacing up her black shoes. And, like Christmas, it was a disappointment.

The clock ticked over, glaring red numbers at her to tell her to get her act together. With a tired sigh, Joan did up her dress and slipped the car into gear, the music stuttering when she twisted the key in the ignition. The city below sweltered in the summer heat, and she roared down the hill to join it.

The day started with PE, a class she loved if only because there was no drama between friends, no discussions of life. The teenagers ran together and sweated together, panting and gasping to get the ball from one end of the court to the other while their teacher very nearly ignored them entirely.

Joan preferred rugby to basketball, but it was summer and so the oval was claimed for those strange cricket fanatics, and the senior PE class was relegated to the courts. Joan scraped her palms along her shorts for the umpteenth time to free them of sweat,  catching the ball when Brad threw it to her and dribbling it down to the end. Her short stature made it easy for her to dodge the taller students in her race for the basket, where she passed it over to Tony.

The ball arched through the air, momentarily blocking out the blistering sun, and then thwacked against the wooden board and flew out into the middle of the court without passing through the basket.

As one, the teams turned to race towards it.

Joan didn’t even see Kendal’s arm, so close to her head. The elbow struck her right in the nose.

The asphalt hit her face, hard. A familiar sting filled her hands. Brad was beside her before she could start to get up.

“Blood!” he yelled, his voice distant, and Joan rocked against him, woozy from the collision. “We’ve got blood!”

There was some scurrying, and then Brad’s strong hands were helping her up to the side of the court where there was shade, and icepacks.

“Damnit, J,” he said, pushing a thick white cloth into her hands. “It’s bad luck to be the first bleeder.”

She dabbed tentatively at her nose.

Brad was her best friend since eighth grade, when they’d first met and he’d refused to call her Joan, citing that it was the name of his great aunt who smelled funny, and he’d be damned before he had a friend called that. Since then they’d stuck together, punching anyone who tried to come between them.

“At least it’s a small injury,” she said, tilting her head to try to stop the bleeding, and squinting at the sun.

“You’ll be pretty in black before the end of class,” he said, giving her an icepack.

 -

True to Brad’s prediction, Joan was sporting a shiner when they parted ways for home-group.  

Cassie leaped up the moment she entered the room. The other girl tugged her into a seat and brushed her cool fingers over the bruise, cooing sympathies. Sally echoed them, and Joan was just about to tell how it had happened when she noticed a small, huddled figure in the corner of the room.  

“Cassie,” she asked. “Who is that?”

“That?” said Sally, loudly, with a strong dismissive air to her voice. The stranger flinched at the tone. “Nobody.” She shrugged.

“New kid,” added Cassie.  

Joan studied her. She sat with long, dark hair that seemed unruly, even from the back, and she was white and skinny. Not skinny like the girls on the athletics team, but skinny like she didn’t eat or had just gone through several rounds of chemo. Her back was straight and her hands were on the table, not touching, her books neatly stacked to one side. She ignored the rest of the class and sat primly, waiting. Joan noticed that she was tapping one toe against the carpet.

“Class!” called Mrs Wesley, walking into the classroom and closing the door. With a frustrated sigh, as though the world were rallying against her, Sally got down off Joan’s desk and took up residence in an actual seat, flipping her hair over her shoulders and glancing across the row at the group of boys.

As the names for roll call were given, Joan perked up a little waiting for the silent stranger at the front of the class to be called.

“Sherlock Holmes?”

“Present,” said the girl. Her voice resonated around the room without actually being a yell, clear and bright and unmistakably female, despite the name. Joan wanted more than anything for the girl to turn around and meet her eyes, to acknowledge that she existed in the same realm together. She twisted her fingers and waited for her name to be called, last as always.

Mrs Wesley placed the roll on top of her pile of papers.

“There aren’t really any announcements. No hat, no play, that kind of thing, but most of you just sit in the common room or the cafe so I think you’ll suffer more from the lack of sun than too much. I’ve got to get to a meeting, so I’ll leave you to study, or get an early break, but don’t be too loud, please. We can’t have the younger year levels thinking that year twelve is all fun and games. Sherlock, Mr Steve wants you in his office, please,” Mrs Wesley gave a small smile before leaving them to themselves.

Immediately she was gone Sally sat back on the desk, crossing her legs at the knee to better show them off to the boys.

Sherlock stood stiffly, her dress hanging from her frame, fitting her poorly, and left the room. Joan watched her go as Sally and Allison lost themselves in a discussion Joan was scarcely interested in hearing.

Without being to place her finger on the pulse of the reason, she wanted to know that strange girl. She wanted to know her inside and out.

 -

Sherlock was in maths. She arrived late in a flurry of books and bag and hair, and sat at the only table empty.

It was only a small class, though smaller still was the higher level class, which Joan was not taking. At the start of each class Mr Aris would toss them an ungraded test of sorts, which had quickly fallen into a competition between students.

Joan enjoyed maths. It wasn’t her forte, and she wasn’t as quick as the others in the class, but she was right more often than not and she enjoyed the calm methodology of it. Generally people were surprised to find that she was, above all, lazy to her very core. Maths helped her by giving a formula to fill, guiding her through the pretence of hard work.

Maths was, apparently, Sherlock’s forte. One hand, her left one, was balled in a fist as Sherlock worked through the set problems, her pen flying over the paper.

She finished the test before even Mandel, who was generally considered the genius in the class. In the back row Alex slammed his pen down, grinning across at Tyler who grimaced at him and bent his head to try to finish the last problem faster. Mr Aris hadn’t intended for the starting tests to be a source of competition, but it happened anyway.

Sherlock didn’t look around at her classmates as she waited, paper pushed to the side and pen resting carelessly against her calculator.

As much as Joan tried to concentrate on her work, she was slightly distracted the entire lesson, planning on pinning the girl in the corridor and forcibly befriending her. That was not to be. At the end of the class, Sherlock flew out of the door as though her dress were on fire. Joan tried to follow, but the taller girl was swallowed up by a hallway of loud ninth graders.  Grimacing at the smell of teenagers at the end of a summer day, Joan pushed her way through, ignoring laughter at her black eye.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite her plan, Joan didn’t catch any more than the back of Sherlock’s head in class for the rest of the week, with only the added bonus of a slight glance at her profile as Sherlock moved in or out of a room. She moved quickly, like a deer on the run, with her head continuously down and hair covering her face. She sat always huddled, never meeting anyone in the eye or talking unless she was called on for an answer. Everything she said then was correct, and giving in a clipped, officious tone that sounded nothing like a teenager in high school.

Joan watched for her all the same.

They had chemistry together, where Sherlock, the odd one out, worked alone while the rest of them were in pairs. For a moment they sat in biology together, until it was revealed that there had been a mistake, and Sherlock was in the wrong class, and that she was in the second of the two biology classes.

Joan saw her reading alone in the common room, or in the cafe with a cup of tea and a stack of books. Always she seemed about to flee, perched on the edge of a chair or rickety table, ready to bound off at a moment’s notice.

 -

“Have you seen the new girl?” she asked, finally unable to not ask, even though she was sure Brad would presume she had a crush. Which wasn’t wrong, but hell, she hadn’t even spoken to the girl. She could pick her out of a crowded hallway, but she didn’t know what colour her eyes were or what shape her nose was.

“Sherlock? She’s in my biology class. Crazy smart and incredibly obnoxious.” Joan remembered the way Sherlock had corrected the teacher in chemistry the other day, and her lips quirked into a smile quickly crushed by the weight she was lifting.

“Good god, did you just pile more on?” she groaned, her arms quivering as she stretched to lift it again.

“Maybe you should rest a second. Swap?” The bar clanked back down and Joan shimmied out from under it, and helped Brad put on more weight.

The school gym was small and cramped, and never properly ventilated. The tired old air-conditioner just pushed around the same stale air, cooling it only marginally. A couple younger students were peddling furiously away on the two stationary bikes they had. Joan stretched her arms and flapped them about to cool off.

“She’s weird, though, too. She talks to herself,” said Brad, getting his grip on the bar.

“I talk to myself.”

“Yeah, but J, c’mon. Neither of us are the most stable of souls,” he said with a crooked grin that belied the eager manner with which Brad approached life.

“She doesn’t have any friends,” continued Joan, carefully.

“With this group? Sometimes I'm surprised we have friends. Bunch of arrogant bigots, the lot.” Joan considered, and conceded.

“Molly’s group is okay. And, I mean, we haven’t beaten anyone up since tenth grade.” Brad smiled, remembering.

The weights clanked as they settled back into the cup.

“I think sending someone to hospital turned everyone off physically attacking us queers.”

Brad breathed in carefully, and then lifted again.

“He was a wuss, I’ve gotten worse playing rugby,” said Joan.

The kids in the corner were still going, though slowly, when they finished. The outside air wasn’t a relief at all, and Joan rubbed her sweaty neck with a groan.

“Got much on for the weekend?” asked Brad, hefting his kitbag over one bare shoulder.

“No. Isn’t Sara having a party?” asked Joan. She’d been considering holing up in her bedroom with her TV and watching Star Trek and drinking tea until she passed out from exhaustion. Brad shrugged.

“I think so. I’m heading down to the bay with Marius.”

“Have fun, I shan’t show,” she said, Brad heading off in the opposite direction to her.

She was hot, and sweaty, and grateful that the house was empty so she could shower in peace. Her mother was home when she was in the kitchen finishing her cooking, and she’d made dinner and retreated to her bedroom before the front door slammed and her father was home. A few minutes later, the yelling started. Joan turned up her radio as loud as it would go and tried to focus on mitosis.

Athletics training had started in full swing, and although Joan wasn’t particularly very good, compared to some of the others, who were state or national champions, she was still told in no uncertain terms not to go hiking or otherwise put herself at risk. She left for her uncle’s lake house on Saturday morning anyway, taking a pile of books and a few videos of M*A*S*H*, and what little homework she cared to do. The weekend was blissful peace.

 -

School on Monday felt stranger than the previous few weeks. Joan felt strangely distant from everyone, even Brad, like a boat without an anchor she drifted through the day.

Conversation was riddled with talk about what had happened at Sara’s on the weekend, and Joan was told in no uncertain terms that she’d missed a good one, and would regret it. There was no Sherlock in home group, and no one seemed to know they were meant to want to talk about her. Sally was full of stories about the guy she’d hooked up with, Jonathan or some such, and although Joan got plenty of detail from Brad about his exploits, it was different hearing such facts from a girl.

Especially when that girl was Sally.

No one asked about what Joan had done on the weekend until midway through lunch, and even then Joan nearly missed the question because she was so busy searching for Sherlock. On Mondays they didn’t have class together until after lunch, but Sherlock hadn’t been in home group and Joan was worried for no reason at all other than she felt, somehow, that it was her duty to look out for her.

“J!” said Brad, punching her on the arm and dropping a salad wrap onto the table in front of her. On Mondays he bought her food. It had begun due to Joan’s family forgetting to feed her, and Brad’s mother had packed two lunches for Brad, one for her son and one for Joan. As she had gotten older and Joan had learned to fend for herself Brad continued to bring or buy her food out of habit. Brad had been vegetarian since ninth grade, though, waggling his eyebrows and declaring that there was only one kind of meat for him, and so Joan had discovered vegetarian food. To her continued surprise she enjoyed it.

“Did you get laid?” she asked, unwrapping the paper from the food. He seemed overly happy for a Monday.

“Kinda. Ish.” He slid into a seat and put his feet on the table. “No, not in the least,” he admitted. “But I got kissed, and a number. We’re going out Saturday.” Brad grinned and Joan grinned back. “I reckon the entire year level was at Sara’s. Even the nerds. Well, except for you, obviously. And I think Sherlock.”

“Huh?” asked Joan through a mouthful of lettuce and carrot.

Alex interrupted them, then, and Joan didn’t get a chance to ask what Brad had said about Sherlock, exactly, and what other people were saying about her, and any other titbits of information Joan could gather. Sherlock wasn’t in maths, either, and Joan went for several laps around the oval after school, despite the heat, trying to pretend she didn’t care.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

 

Home was hell.

That wasn’t at all surprising, which perhaps made it all the worse. Her mother dropped a glass, her father yelled, and in between it all was Joan trying futilely to keep the peace.

Her brother had left home some years before, and Joan was envious while at the same time she would do much better things with her freedom than she was. Less alcohol, and perhaps a stable relationship.

She kept her home-life close to her heart. Even Brad knew very little of the truth.

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Having had no sleep the night before Joan was in absolutely no mood for her friends’ antics come Tuesday morning. She was late because she’d dozed off at the lookout, and grouchy without any breakfast or her usual morning coffee. Once at school she sequestered herself in the far corner of the English room and tried to sleep while the teacher described John Donne to them in terms that Joan was sure grossly exaggerated the poet’s true intentions.

Brad was right, she needed new friends. Friends who didn’t poke her in the ribs and demand in giggling tones to know who ‘she’ was. As though Joan couldn’t possibly have a reason other than a girl to be bone-dead tired on a Tuesday morning.

With all of this looming over her like a dark cloud threatening to storm Joan was completely unprepared for Molly, her regular chemistry partner, to be away sick, and for Joan to be told to sit with Sherlock.

Joan held her breath as she sat down at the bench next to the girl.

“I’m Joan,” she said.

Sherlock didn’t even so much as glance her way, noting down something, Joan could not fathom what.

“I know.”

Joan made herself move her hand to her books, casually, as thought it did not matter that the strange girl knew her name, or that the strange girl’s pale sea-green eyes were focused entirely on her books, and not Joan.

She looked as though she had forgotten to brush her hair; at least, any attention it received was clearly an afterthought. It fell in a messy tangle over the pale white of her neck. Joan found herself biting her lip to keep from leaning over and tasting her skin. Sherlock caught her eye. Feeling transparent and judged, Joan leaned away.

“Right, I’ll just go get a burette, then, shall I? The stand and all is under the bench.”

When she came back with the equipment Sherlock had done nothing to get them set up. Annoyed, Joan did it instead, and then went and got the bottles of chemicals. Still, Sherlock had done nothing to help.

Joan glared, feeling her crush wilt away a little to be replaced by anger.

“I’m not a genius or anything,” she snapped, “but this is just a basic titration. I’m not going to be a dead weight, but you’re going to have to do something, too.”

Sherlock looked almost affronted by the accusation that she was lazy.

“I’ll do the titration, obviously.”

Obviously, noticed Joan.

“You can write down how many mil we use.”

“Everyone said you were weird, no one said you were an ass.” She kept her tone carefully mild, and started arranging the bottles and beakers on the table in neat rows.

“No one’s told me anything about you, but I know that you don’t drink, you hate your friends, except for the one who buys you lunch on Mondays. You have an older sister who lives interstate, and you really wish Cassandra would stop trying to make out with you the moment she gets near alcohol.”

“Knowing all that doesn’t make you less of an ass. Tie back your hair, we’re in chemistry,” she scowled. “Anyway, Harry’s my brother.” Sherlock frowned as though her world had just collapsed around her for being wrong. “I appreciate you referring to Brad as the friend who buys me lunch, rather than my gay friend,” she added, more gently.

Sherlock snorted, and finally tied back her hair.

“Buying you lunch is more interesting than sexual orientation.”

“That’s a rare stance to take, at least around here.” Joan wondered if Sherlock was gay. She had a nice face, with deliciously intense eyes.

They did the titration, Sherlock’s long white fingers letting the titrant drip slowly into the beaker. They were finished first, and allowed to leave early. The class hadn’t availed Joan of any romantic notions about the girl, but she had brought her down a peg or two, so that Sherlock was less ethereal mystery and more obnoxious.

They didn’t say anything as they walked side by side to the locks. Joan wasn’t sure if she should say something and Sherlock wasn’t offering anything, but when they parted ways Sherlock gave her a nod. It was only small, but it was as though she were approving of Joan, finally acknowledging her existence as something beyond a mere faceless figure in the crowd.

Knowing that Sherlock knew Joan existed gave her the courage to get to the maths room early to take the table next to Sherlock, a space that had remained empty since the beginning of the year.

Sherlock barely looked at her, sitting down in a flurry of activity since she was, as usual, scarcely on time.

It was only once class started, and Joan realized that she’d left her calculator at home, that Sherlock tilted her head towards her. Then, Sherlock carefully pushed her calculator to the line where their two tables met, like a scared kid only willing to go halfway. Joan was willing to take that much, and they leaned towards each other, not talking, clearing their row of calculation so the other couldn’t cheat.

It was tentative, but Joan left school that day smiling, and sang along to the radio as she went home.

 -

It became a gentle relationship over the next few weeks, a slight sharing of things, a passing of books during class, or tilts of the head in the corridor. Joan kept it from her friends, which wasn’t difficult. Joan had had more contact with Filip, the guy she hated most, and everyone knew she hated. He’d punched her once, called her a dyke, and left bruises on Joan’s then-girlfriend’s arm. There was no love lost between them, but still, Joan sometimes found herself exchanging words with the guy.

With Sherlock, she didn’t speak a word beyond the few that were needed in class.

She told Brad, one day after track practice. The weather had cooled, and all week rain clouds had been threatening. They walked the oval together, cooling down, Brad stripping off his shirt and teasing Joan for being a prude. He wasn’t surprised.

“J, you’ve been licking your lips at her all term. Are you going to make a move before holidays?”

“There’s no move to make. We’re just sharing books.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever. She’s weird, though.” Joan considered.

“Yeah, pretty weird. But I like her. There’s something...” she floundered for the word, “right about her.”

“Good,” said Brad, and that was all he said on the matter because he took that opportunity to try a front-flip, only to land smack on his back on the grass groaning. Joan peered down at him.

“I think you need to practice more,” she said.

“I think you need to fuck off,” he gasped.


	5. Chapter 5

Joan raced to the car, rain pouring down, plastering her short, blond hair to her head. Her backpack bounced around painfully, and her kitbag swung wildly in her hand. The car park was nearly empty; Joan had stayed back in the library to get some study done, knowing she wouldn’t get any in over a weekend.

She fumbled with her keys and fell into the car in a mess, tossing her bags over into the back seat and rubbing the rain from her face. Thank god it wasn’t summer anymore, but the rain wasn’t exactly welcome, either. The car coughed into life and the radio started blaring out. Joan let it play. She pulled out and turned down the street when she caught a black figure huddled by a bus stop. There was no shelter, and the trees weren’t exactly doing anything to hold back the torrential rain. Recognizing the school uniform poking out from beneath the jacket, she slowed, and stopped all of a sudden as she realized it was Sherlock.

“Hey!” she yelled, leaning over and winding down her window. “Oi, Sherlock. Get in the car!” Sherlock looked at her, bewildered.

“Come on, dammit.”

Sherlock complied, getting water all over everything as she sat down.

“Dear god, didn’t you bring an umbrella? There’s no bus that goes past here after 4.30,” continued Joan, remembering her own days of bussing to and from school. “Wait, you don’t catch the bus. You have a black car that comes.”

“Excellent powers of observation,” remarked Sherlock, dryly, reaching over to turn the radio off.

“Hey!” said Joan, turning it back on. “I rescue you from the rain, I get to have the radio on what I want.” Sherlock reached over again, but this time just turned it down.

“It’s my brother’s car.”

“Huh?”

“The car that picks me up,” said Sherlock, tapping her fingers impatiently. “It’s my brother’s car.”

“As in, he picks you up, or he has a car sent to pick you up?”

“The latter.”

“You can’t drive?”

“I tried it once,” said Sherlock, looking away. “It wasn’t pleasant.” Joan snorted.

“Right. Well, where to, miss?” Sherlock gave an address in her clipped manner.

“Why didn’t your brother come for you? Or his car, whichever,” added Joan.

“I think he’s out of town. I’m not sure.”

“You don’t know? What about your parents, can’t they come get you?”

“They do not get involved in my life in a parental way.”

“If your brother has cars to throw to your service, and you live in the suburb you live in, why the hell are you at a state school?”

“I was at boarding school. My brother saw fit to remove me from it.”

“And your parents didn’t argue?”

“I’m not sure they know.” Joan fell silent. And she thought her family was fucked in the head.

“Have you got plans for the weekend?” she asked, tapping the steering wheel and trying her regular conversation-starter.

“I have homework, and some work by Rousseau to read. He was a French philosopher,” she added, as though Joan couldn’t possibly know who Rousseau was.

“To read in the original or the translation?” asked Joan, snidely. She, personally, didn’t care for Rousseau, and didn’t see the point of experiencing more than the little information history class had provided.

“The original, of course,” said Sherlock, and Joan was reminded why everyone thought Sherlock was an ass.

“You’re an ass,” she said, deciding that open honesty was better than anything else.

“I apologize,” said Sherlock, and Joan gave her a sharp look. She hadn’t heard Sherlock apologize before, even when she had accidentally collided with a person in the corridor. “You are, after all, driving me home.” Joan’s car groaned a little as it turned a sharp, uphill corner, as if proving the point. Joan shifted down a gear and willed her car to keep going.

“What happened at the boarding school, or is that not public access?” asked Joan, trying again.

“Things. What happened between you and your parents?”

“What?” cried Joan, more loudly than she intended.

“You spend all your time at school, and you’ve had four weekends of the previous six at a place that isn’t your home. Clearly you don’t get along.”

“How do you gather that?”

“You come to school more rested on those Mondays, and you don’t stay after school on those Fridays. Given that it is past 5 and you are only just driving home, I take it that you are staying at home this weekend.”

“I go to my uncle’s cabin,” said Joan, deciding not to argue. “It’s nice. No one ever goes there.”

“And this weekend there is some event on, am I right? You are more tense than usual. A family event then, a birthday? Or is your brother coming to visit? Oh, yes, dear brother Harry’s coming.” Joan twisted her fists around the steering wheel.

“How do you do that?”

“I’m good at people.”

“Brilliantly good.” She glanced at Sherlock, surprised to see her face recoiled, as though waiting for a slap.

“Brilliant?” repeated Sherlock. “Not freakish?”

“Yes. Brilliant,” said Joan, determinedly. She wouldn’t be like the other at school. No matter what. She gripped the steering wheel firmly, so she didn’t reach out for Sherlock’s hand.

She slowed down on the street Sherlock had told her, rolling to a stop outside of a tall, grim looking house with immaculate hedges and huge, dark trees closing in on it.

“Are you alright?” she asked. The rain had stopped, but she didn’t want to let her go, not yet. She didn’t want to go home, either. Surely Sherlock could see that.

“Come in. Have a cup of tea,” said Sherlock. She got out of the car and didn’t look back to see if Joan followed, but when she did there was a brief look of bewilderment across her face. Joan grinned at her, and followed her into the house.

The house was that old English style that was everything Joan could remember her grandmother’s house to be, the one, short memory she had of running up the hall, Harry chasing her and both of them laughing. Dark, and huge, with great paintings hung on wooden walls. There was a fireplace in a sitting room, and stiff family portraits sat above it. Sherlock led Joan onwards, down the hall and up some stairs, then up another flight to the attic.

There was a small, dusty window in the corner that looked out through the trees over the city, but Joan got the picture that the view wasn’t the purpose of the room. It was large, with an unmade bed in the corner and a desk by the window that was covered in books and papers. The battered armchair had a violin propped against the cushion, and a crooked mirror hung on the wall near a wardrobe. It was covered in equations written in red. Stepping closer, Joan realized it was lipstick, and she looked sharply at Sherlock. She’d never seen the girl wear any makeup, let alone bright red lipstick.

“So, this is where the magic happens.”

“Magic is not real, Joan,” said Sherlock, and Joan wondered if Sherlock listened to herself, and judged herself the same way she judged other people. Surely she didn’t, not with her sense of humour.

Joan examined the shelves and stacks of books, looking for familiar titles. There were a few Agatha Christies films, still in their plastic wrapping. Only a few videos by David Attenborough seemed to be used, and even then they were at the bottom of a dusty pile. Mostly, though, the books were intellectual, and they were on everything: scientific textbooks, philosophical writings, books of art and history. The biography of Albert Einstein was propped up by a collection of books by Richard Feynman. There were four map books of the city, going all the way back to its foundation.

There was a skull on the bookshelf. By the time Joan had made her circuit of the room, she wasn’t even surprised.

“What do you do for fun?” she asked. Sherlock looked at her as though she did not understand the question.

“I study.”

“How are you still in high school?” she asked, fingering the well-worn cover of _Gray’s Anatomy_. “You’re clearly some kind of genius.” She readdressed the room. “A genius who never has time to sleep.” She eyed the empty mugs on the desk next to the notebooks, remembering why she had been lured indoors. “Wasn’t there tea?”

“In the kitchen,” said Sherlock, and since she didn’t seem about to move Joan decided that it was up to her to fumble about in a strange kitchen making tea for the two of them.

The kitchen was scarce and the tea was easily found, next to a coffee machine and under a hanging cabinet, in which Joan found biscuits. They didn’t speak while the kettle boiled, and Joan found herself relaxing, not wondering what she was doing here in this strange house with this strange girl. Tea was a constant comfort no matter the situation, she decided.

“Why aren’t your parents getting divorced?” asked Sherlock.

“Pardon?” she said, before she remembered that this was Sherlock, and Sherlock knew everything. “I don’t know,” she sighed. “Fucked if I know,” she added, more vehemently. “Sometimes I wonder if they ever had anything in common.”

“Are common interests vital to a relationship?” Joan thought back on her previous relationships, and shrugged.

“Maybe.” Sherlock tilted her head in the manner Joan had come to understand as Sherlock’s learning face. She thought of the attic of books, of Sherlock’s silence, and wondered what had happened at the boarding school. She wasn’t sure if she was allowed to ask. “I think there needs to be something in common. I think, now, I’m the only thing in common.” She felt a pang of guilt. She spent so little time at home, not wanting to be around either parent, her mother with her drinking and her father with his temper. Remembering that Harry was coming home that weekend, she felt the heavy weight in her stomach sink deeper still.

“Are you okay?” asked Sherlock, almost tenderly.

“Sure,” she lied, and she knew Sherlock knew it was a lie, but she was glad that Sherlock knew and did not press.

“Have you eaten today?” she asked, remembering she hadn’t seen Sherlock in the cafe that afternoon. Sherlock shook her head, and when they finished their tea Joan took Sherlock out to dinner.

Joan told herself it was just a friend thing, her trying to make sure that Sherlock didn’t fade away into a world of paper and books and no one real, and Sherlock giving her a reason not to go home. They sat close together in a booth, Sherlock not appearing to realize that her leg was against Joan’s, Joan unable to forget it.

Sherlock did not say much, and when she did her voice was clipped and unemotional. She didn’t laugh at Joan’s jokes, and Joan found herself explaining basic things, like Blinky Bill, and Red Dwarf. Sherlock was endlessly fascinated by the stories Joan had of sports, staring intently at Joan as she recounted the bushwalk of the previous year, or the time they’d learned archery.

Joan nearly went so far as to tell about the lake house, but she didn’t, she stopped herself. That was hers, still hers, and she wanted to protect it still, even though Sherlock had picked the same booth Joan would have picked, and had taken the olives from her salad before Joan could say she did not like them. She felt too exposed too soon, and wanted to keep something of hers, still.

On the drive home, she sang along to the radio, and Sherlock watched her curiously, the corners of her mouth tilting up when Joan beat the steering wheel in time with the drums. Joan pulled into the driveway, her heart beating nervously. She wasn’t sure if this had been a date, and if it was, if she should kiss Sherlock, or even if she should hug her. She left her seatbelt on just in case, and Sherlock nodded to her.

“Thank you for the evening,” she said stiffly, as though she were not used to saying such things.

“No problem,” said Joan, and she remembered that Sherlock was still a strange, socially awkward enigma of a girl, and doing anything unwanted would do more to damage her than it would to Joan. She could not cope with that, and so decided she did not mind when Sherlock got out of the car without only a small, strange smile. When the light inside the house flicked on and the door closed behind, Joan pulled out of the driveway, scarcely caring that she was going home.

 -

Harry’s car was in the driveway when Joan finally got home, but it was late and the house was dark and silent. Gratefully, she sank into bed, dreaming of a tall figure with haughty eyes.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Joan was dragged from her room the next morning by her mother and berated for sleeping in. Joan had been awake for hours, had gone for a run and was sitting at her desk finishing an essay for uni. They sat in the kitchen around the table. Someone had gone to the effort of cooking bacon and eggs, as though they were a regular, functioning family. Joan’s father leaned back in his chair, a cigarette between his lips and the paper spread out before him. Saturday breakfast at the Watson’s.

Harry handed her a cup of coffee, smiling over it as if it were a token of friendship. Joan took it, knowing it likely had sugar and not bothering to remind him how she took it. He wouldn’t be here long enough for it to matter.

“How are you?” she asked, sitting down and eying the mugs in front of her mother and brother. Since they weren’t smoking, it was likely their coffee was laced with whiskey. As always, she felt like the lone white sheep in a family long gone off the rails.

“You weren’t home last night,” accused Harry. He looked haggard, and Joan remembered running across a park with him, kites flying high behind, laughing at the sun and the wind and the joy of it all. He didn’t look the same, not at all.

“Sorry, I had things on. What did you do?” Her eyes swept over her parents.

“Just got pizza, watched a movie.” Joan tried to imagine her parents sitting at opposite ends of the couch, Harry in the armchair, glass in hand. They wouldn’t have talked much, because her family didn’t. Quality family time was a mystery to the Watsons.

“Which movie?” Her eyes flicked between her parents and her brother. She could feel herself drowning in the tension, and she wondered what had happened the night before.

“Thelma and Louise. It was okay,” said her mother, leaning forward, wanting to be included. “Harry said it would be. Your father didn’t like it.” Her father rustled the paper.

“How’s uni?” asked Joan. She had his phone number. If she really cared, she could call, but talking to Harry now wasn’t like talking to Harry when they’d been younger, and things had been easier. Now, it was all stiffness and awkwardness and never knowing what to say.

“Not bad. A bit dull.”

“It’s not holidays yet, is it? I didn’t think you’d be coming home for a couple weeks.” As her mother leaned back and the paper folded down, Joan knew she’d asked the wrong question.

“About that,” started Harry. “I’m thinking of dropping the course. Well, uni all together, actually. There’s this course at TAFE...” Joan’s mother exploded.

“You are not leaving uni! After all your father and I have gone through to send you over there and put you up, you are not throwing it all away!” Joan flinched, bowing her head, trying to curl away from the fight. One day she’d yell back, she thought, but only when she could win.

“It’s just, I think I’d prefer to be a mechanic, you know? Or maybe a plumber? I’m not sure yet. But I want to do something real, with my hands.” Joan caught her father opening his mouth to speak, but her mother got their first.

“Oh yeah? So you’re going to stop drinking to keep your hands in good nick, are you?”

“Joanne,” said Joan’s father, in warning, but he was ignored.

“Like you can talk!” said Harry, “You still keep your scotch in the same place under the sink in the bathroom!”

“You stole my scotch?” screeched her mother.

“Only an alcoholic would bother hiding it in the first place!”

Joan stopped listening. She was tired of him, tired of her family. Harry had big plans, but they always fell through, lost to alcohol or a girl, or, once, a spontaneous trip to Thailand. Coping with it was too much.

Eventually, Harry excused himself, saying he had planned to go and see friends. Their parents rolled their eyes in unison, and for a moment they were a couple again. Until her mother snatched the cigarette out of her father’s lips, scolding him for smoking inside, and her father gathered up his papers in an angry rustle and stalked out of the room.

Joan wished she had Sherlock’s number so she could call her. Instead, she rang Brad and asked if he were doing anything that evening, and when he said he was free, Joan quickly left the house.

 -

“What’s up?”

“God, do I have to talk about feelings?” Brad collapsed backwards onto his bed, and she fell down with him.

“Yes,” he said determinedly. “What is happening? You’ve been weird all week, don’t think I didn’t notice.”

“Just... family stuff. My brother is here from interstate. We don’t get along, and he and I don’t get along with our parents, so I was thinking perhaps a night of _Red Dwarf_.”

“I’m always up for a night of that, but are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” mumbled Joan, “Just needed to get out of the house.”

Brad’s dog joined them on his bed, and they all fell asleep together in a tangled mess as if they were still twelve years old.

Joan woke up past midnight when Brad’s phone rang, and she snuggled down back against the pillows while Brad left the room to answer it. She presumed it was the boy he’d met, and smiled at her friend being happy. She was asleep before Brad came back to bed. 


	7. Chapter 7

On Monday, Brad gave Joan a lentil pie for lunch, which wasn’t as good as her preferred meat and potato, but it could do in a pinch, she supposed.

Sherlock was waiting for her in maths, smelling slightly sour of something familiar, but covered up too thickly in perfume for Joan to work out what it was. Molly originally seemed upset at losing Joan to the other side of the room, but lost no time in getting Jaime to compare answers with her.

Mr Aris handed out the test, and Joan lethargically applied herself. Sherlock raised her head first, as always.

“What the hell, Sherlock? You’re such a freak,” called out Mandel, still working on his.

“Oh, shut it, Mandel,” said Sherlock, not bothering to turn and instead sneering at the wall in front of her. “Go lament your inadequacies to Sally. But perhaps not behind the year eleven block, this time.” Mandel spluttered, and Mr Aris told them to be quiet.

“Are they dating?” whispered Joan to Sherlock.

“I’m not sure I’d call it dating. But yes, and they have been since Tuesday week five.” That was two weeks Sally hadn’t told a soul, and just yesterday Mandel had happily informed the common room that he was going away in the holidays with his girlfriend since tenth grade, Sylvia.

“Sylvia won’t be pleased,” said Joan, surprised that she felt bad. Having spent lunches for the last few weeks in the library, either reading or studying, she’d found that she didn’t much miss her friends. Sylvia was not exactly her friend, but she was nice enough, and didn’t deserve being cheated on.

Quirking her mouth, Sherlock focused on her maths. Sylvia didn’t matter to her.

Joan thought the comment was nothing more than that, and forgot it nearly as soon as it had been said. She had always preferred to stay out of the gossip her friends so loved, and she didn’t hear anything about Mandel breaking up with Sylvia.

“Do you need a lift home?” she asked at the end of the class, spontaneously, unwilling to abandon Sherlock’s side just yet. Sherlock assented, calmly, as though it were perfectly natural for Joan to drive her home. This time, Joan did not go inside, but she asked again the next day, and on Wednesday Sherlock waited near her locker before following her out to her car. 


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

 

Sherlock became a habit, a comfortable habit.

They went out again on Friday night, just for fish and chips which Joan ate sitting on the bonnet of her car driven onto an abandoned stretch of overgrown grass, while Sherlock excitedly examined the plants. Joan tried indulging her, until Sherlock snatched the flower out of her hand, haughtily declaring that she didn’t like liars and she’d really much prefer not to be around Joan if that was how she was going to be.

Despite that, at the end of the evening Joan found herself wondering, again, if she should lean over and kiss her, and again, Sherlock got out of the car and walked to her front door without touching Joan at all. She forced herself to remember that Sherlock was a friend, and not interested in anything more. It was better that way.

After all, she had enough distractions as it was. 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Allison was waiting at the school gate for her on Monday, huddled behind the wall away from the wind. Clouds made the sky an ominous gray, but the air was warm, even though Joan’s hair was still damp from her shower.

“Are you coming to my party?”

“Pardon?” asked Joan, mildly. Her kit bag swung and smacked her in the leg. Every time that happened, she thought it would bruise, but it never did.

“My party. Friday night. It’s my birthday?” she asked, as though she weren’t sure and Joan would know. “We’re having dinner at the Green Lantern. Well, by ‘we’ I mean only a few people. My closest friends,” said Allison, conspiratorially, with a wink at Joan, “and then a party at mine. I’m turning eighteen, you gotta be there.” Joan sighed.

“I dunno.”

“Come on, I know its last minute but I thought we could have it out. But of course, nearly everyone will be underage, and that’s no fun. So I had to convince my parents to go out of town for the weekend, and now it’s at my place!” Wondering if Allison had been held back a year so she was the oldest in the class, she said,

“I don’t drink.”

“You can, for me, can’t you? At least be there,” said Allison. Likely she planned to get Joan drunk once at the party. Spike her drink, perhaps, for Cassie’s sake.

“Sure, sure, I’ll be there,” said Joan absently. The bell buzzed, and they parted ways.

Only later, jogging around the track, did Joan realize that going to Allison’s would mean saying no to Sherlock. She wasn’t sure they were friends enough yet for her to turn her down, and, moreso, Joan didn’t know if she wanted to.

She didn’t mention it to Sherlock, even though Sherlock definitely knew all about it. Allison took pride in declaring her intentions to the common room, announcing that everyone was invited to be at hers. Sherlock probably also caught the whispers that followed afterwards, selecting individuals to attend the dinner. Joan didn’t catch her eye, feeling guilty for not feeling torn.


	10. Chapter 10

Joan walked into the common room on a cold, Thursday morning. Autumn had hit in full swing. She’d just come back from studying at the library in her free period. She set her things out on the table, going to boil the kettle to make herself a cup of tea to drink. The blissful silence of the common room during class time was excellent for book reading.  Blissful, she thought, until she heard a soft sob.

“Hello?” she asked to the empty room. She walked around the table and nearly stepped on Sylvia, who was huddled in a corner.

“Are you alright, Syl?” Sylvia shook her head.

“Sherlock... Mandel,” she said, and then gulped in a mouthful of air, balling her hand into a fist to gather herself. “Sherlock said that Mandel was cheating me, and I didn’t believe it, but then she said it again so I went to the gardening shed because Sherlock said that they went behind there and they were there and-”

“Hey, hey,” said Joan, sliding down the wall to sit next to Sylvia. They weren’t really friends, but Joan was damned if she’d leave anyone alone in this state. “Easy, slow down.”

“How could he do this to me?” she sobbed, and then, “Why did Sherlock have to tell everyone in English? Now everyone knows.” Recalling the maths class, Joan felt a pang of guilt. Perhaps she should have said something.

“Sherlock’s an ass,” she said, “but I don’t think she really understands people.” She took a breath. She wasn’t meant to be defending Sherlock, she was meant to be comforting Sylvia. “And Mandel’s an ass too.”

“I love him,” gasped Sylvia, and collapsed into tears again.

Joan rubbed her back gently as her breathing became more regular and she was more able to talk.

“It just sucks. At least it’s now? At the beginning of the year? But how long was this going on? How long did he go from me to her?” Joan said nothing, because there was nothing to say. “Fuck, it was my birthday a few weeks ago. He got me a card, and a bear, and some videos that I really wanted but hadn’t asked. It was like he cared. Things were normal,” she gasped in a shaky breath. “That bitch, I could kill her.”

“You and I both know that Sally will end up face down in a ditch some day, but you probably shouldn’t be the one going to jail for that crime. Your life is worth more than that.” Syl allowed herself a smile.

“She’s going to be at Allison’s party, and so is Mandel. I can’t go, now.”

“So don’t. Sit at home, read a book. Have a bath. Find some better friends and go have dinner with them.” Sylvia sighed.

“Molly might be free,” she said absently.

“Find out for sure,” encouraged Joan.

“Sometimes I wish I were gay,” said Sylvia. “Brad and you never seem to have these problems.” That just meant that Brad and Joan were exceptionally good at hiding those problems. Brad had found one of his exes in bed with a girl, and Joan had found hers alone, passed out with coke still stuck to her nose. At fifteen, she’d been too young to deal with that and had called the cops. For obvious reasons, that relationship was well over.

“Can I tell you a secret?” asked Joan, for no reason other than she’d only ever told Brad, and Sylvia still had tears stuck to her face and Joan wanted to cheer her up. Sylvia nodded. “I’m not gay.”

“What?” gasped Sylvia. “But what about...?”

“Oh, I like women. But I like men, too.” Sylvia’s eyes were wide open. She was probably remembering the numerous times the boys had needed privacy to strip out of wet soccer gear, but hadn’t bothered to kick Joan out of the room.

“Dear god.” Joan’s mind had flown to that time in ninth grade when Noelle, pig that she was, had kicked Joan out of the girl’s locker room, and told her to go use the boy’s. She reminded herself that it was meant to be a humorous moment of comforting Sylvia, and smiled.

“Yeah... I try not to abuse it. I don’t really want to be a perv.”

“Doesn’t anyone know?”

“Brad does. But when everyone found out about Jeanette,” a fond memory passed over Joan’s mind, though the relationship had ended quickly and not well, “it was easier to let them think that then try to explain.”

“You’ve dated boys?” Joan shrugged, tired of telling, but glad Sylvia had stopped looking so sad.

“A few. Not many have lasted, but then, none of my relationships have.” She made to stand. “Come on, I was about to make some tea. Want some?” Sylvia smiled and allowed herself to be pulled up and just like that Joan realized that she was able to comfort people. Tea made everything better.

In maths, Mandel was as bright and cheerful as anything. Joan got an extra thrill at Sherlock beating him yet again at the test.

 -

Joan left biology, grateful for the weekend and longing for the holidays. Just one week away now, and then she could spend as much of it – maybe all of it – at the lake house as she pleased. Imaging the freedom of at least the weekend ahead she threw her kit onto the backseat of the car and just sat there.

Perhaps she’d make pie, or reread Dorian Gray, or perhaps she’d just sleep. Sleep sounded good. Her father was away on business, and so long as her mother was plied with alcohol, or, at least, stayed out of the house and away from Joan, and her brother didn’t call, the weekend would be peaceful. It would be a nice change, to have a quiet house.

She was sitting contemplating what music would be best for the car ride home when the passenger door opened and Sherlock slid in, twisting to put her bag on the backseat. She was wearing a non-regulation black coat, which she huddled down into, pulling the collar up so it poked at her sharp cheekbones. Joan tried to pull her eyes away.

“It’s not that cold,” said Joan.

“Where are we going tonight?”

“I’d really rather not go anywhere.” Sherlock eyed her.

“Right, sorry, of course. It’s all over you.” She sighed. “It’s been something of a hectic week for me, too. There were three murders and honestly the lawyer one of them has gotten is absolutely terrible. He’s clearly not guilty but the man is so incompetent I’ll be surprised if he gets off.”

“So _that’s_ where you were on Wednesday,” realized Joan.

“I didn’t think you’d miss me.” Sherlock’s voice was small. They didn’t have any classes together on Wednesdays, but Joan had stayed after school for a while at the car, waiting for Sherlock to show. Sherlock made a small noise that sounded like _oh_ , and Joan decided not to touch that yet, and twisted the key in the ignition.

“To yours, then?”

“Yes, and be quick about it.” Joan raised an eyebrow. “My brother got a cat and last night it got into my room and vomited on my map of eighteenth century Europe.” Her voice was exasperated. Joan just laughed, and Sherlock scowled, which made Joan laugh more. She didn’t care, she had Sherlock, and it was the weekend, and it was viciously windy and threatening to bucket down any second.

Joan rolled out of the car park and sped to Sherlock’s feeling lightheaded and wanting to laugh all the way.

 -

“Where is your brother, anyway? I’m curious at his lack of presence in the house.” Joan stood by Sherlock’s desk, the chair having a pile of books on it that she hadn’t cared to move. Sherlock was cleaning up the latest mess from the cat, who had taken up residence in the middle of her bed and had refused to move.

“Don’t even talk about Mycroft,” said Sherlock flatly. The room was cold, and dark. Joan shivered without meaning to, and Sherlock crossed the room to the heater on the wall and flicked it on, not even looking at her.

“Mycroft?” Joan didn’t want to touch that with a ten-foot pole. She’d seen the look on Sherlock’s face when someone had laughed at her name. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s just out, a lot. Busy. Work stuff.”

“Your parents?” Joan had asked this before, and Sherlock had not answered.

“Out. Always out,” she said this time.

“Where?”

“Why would I know?”

“Because they’re your parents, and because you know everything,” said Joan, the conversation going too quickly for her to stop herself. Once out, she wanted to drag the words back in. Sherlock sneered at her.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. I know you think I’m not as smart as you, and sure I don’t have quite the powers of observation that you do, but I know you look at everything, really look, and I know you didn’t actually catch Mandel and Sally behind the shed, you just knew, just like you knew that Mr Aris was trying to give up smoking and Miss Mill’s dog died last week and...”

The intensity of Sherlock’s stare made her voice die in her throat. She wanted to lean over and brush her finger against those lips, push her thick, unruly hair away from her face, ease all her troubles and never see her scowl again. As those thoughts passed across her mind she realised, with horror, that Sherlock probably knew them, too. She licked her lips, nervously, and Sherlock’s eyes followed the action.

“My parents travel a lot,” she said, eventually, her voice still that clipped, formal kind of voice she always had, “but not together. I don’t often hear about my father, but mother calls, occasionally. Even visits, at Christmas and sometimes at birthdays. They’re both in business.”

“My dad travels a lot, too,” offered Joan. “And my mother’s not really around, well, at all. Not properly.” The wind, which had been howling all day, knocked a branch against the house and Joan jumped. The cat on the bed started, wide eyes scanning the room. Then there was the sound of a car door slamming, and the front door opened and closed. The cat leaped up and dashed across the room, nearly tripping in its haste to get down the stairs.

“Sherlock, are you home?” called a voice, faint from the distance up the stairs.

“My brother,” said Sherlock.

“I can hide, if you prefer,” but Sherlock had already started on down the stairs and Joan had no choice but to follow.

“Oh, you have a friend,” said Mycroft, extending a hand to shake, and looking at Joan as though he could see right through her. He also looked extremely surprised.

“Joan, this is my brother, Mycroft.”

“Pleasure,” said Mycroft, and Joan could tell simply from the smooth way his voice slid out and pooled at his feet that he was not a man to be taken lightly. His eyes ran over Joan curiously. “What are you having for dinner, Sherlock, since you are here?”

“We thought we’d stay in,” said Sherlock, defensively. Joan had never heard that tone of voice from her, and it was interesting, and scary.

“And what, watch a movie?” sneered Mycroft, in a manner nearly exactly like Sherlock. “Dear me, Joan, don’t ever watch a film with this one unless it is historical, and even then be sure that it is completely correct. Sherlock can be, well, an absolute horror.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Joan mildly. There was something here, between the siblings, that she did not want to step on.

“We’ll be going out for dinner,” said Sherlock firmly.

“You shan’t be, I’m afraid. The wind has made the roads quite impassable, and if there is not already, there will definitely be a tree across the road before long. Joan, I fear you have trapped yourself into spending the night,” here, he turned an evil, crooked smiled to Sherlock, “Many apologies. There is a spare bedroom, for when Sherlock becomes unbearable.”

“Thank you.”

Mycroft’s eyes stopped searching Joan’s face for something he did not appear to find, and locked onto Sherlock’s.

“I’ll heat up some soup. Does that sound acceptable? Joan,” he continued, not giving Sherlock a chance to speak, “do you enjoy pumpkin soup? Perhaps with garlic bread?”

“Sure,” she said, even though she didn’t know, because soup was a lazy Sunday afternoon food, and her family were not the sort to have lazy Sunday afternoons.

“Do you need to call someone to let them know you’re safe?” asked Mycroft, but Joan swallowed. Mycroft’s gaze softened, and a look passed over his face.

“They’ll be fine,” said Joan, just as she realized that she was still wearing her school uniform, and she felt so incredibly teenage, stuck at her crush’s house on a stormy night.

“Oh, crap,” she said, remembering.

“What is it?” asked Sherlock, alarmed.

“I forgot... A party. It’s nothing.” The siblings looked at her. “Really, it’s absolutely nothing. I didn’t want to go, anyway,” she added, watching Sherlock. Joan could have sworn she looked relieved.

They returned upstairs, and Joan sat down on the bed.

“If you don’t like movies, what are we going to do? What do you normally do after school?”

“Study. Read. I have an essay due in English and three murders to work out and I have to find out everything about potoroos. I’ve got a biography to finish reading and I think there’s a mistake in the test paper Mr Aris gave out the other day but I haven’t had time to check.”

Sherlock had sat down at her desk, and was now focusing intently on a notebook. Joan waited to be remembered.

“What do you normally do?” Sherlock asked, eventually, tentatively.

“I was looking forward to watching some TV, reading a book, and sleeping.” Joan sighed, thinking of the soft, warm sheets of her bed, tangled and unmade. “Sleep sounds good. It’s been a rough week.” Joan had learned that Sherlock got quite annoyed if someone alluded to something without properly explaining it, and so swallowed and continued. “I kind of... Came out to someone. For the first time in, well, since the very first time.”

She looked up at Sherlock, wishing she had a long fringe of hair to hide behind. If Sherlock knew this particular fact about Joan, she wasn’t sharing.

“It’s just, strange. And Mandel and Sylvia broke up, which isn’t particularly a bad thing. I just hope Syl is okay. Molly’s taking her out tonight.”

“Poor Molly. She really has no luck with women.”

“Molly... what?”

“Molly’s bent as you are.”

“I’m not all that bent,” said Joan, wryly.

“So you’re not here in the hopes that, eventually, something more will come of this friendship?”

“What? No!”

“I’m hurt,” said Sherlock. Her face was impassive.

“So, you’re saying Molly’s bi?”

“Molly’s a lesbian. _Oh_.” Understanding crossed Sherlock’s face.

“I’m not a lesbian.”

“So I gathered from what you just said,” said Sherlock stiffly, her brow furrowing at the fact that she was wrong.

“And I’m not here hoping that, eventually, something will come of this. You’re my friend. I’m not waiting for anything. I’m happy with this, as it is, from now until forever.”

“So you’re not interested in me?” asked Sherlock, drily. She flicked to a new page and picked up a pen, not even looking at Joan. “I’ll have you know I’m quite a catch.”

“What?” exclaimed Joan. That wasn’t the kind of thing you just out and asked someone.

“Hello, girls,” said a languid voice. “I take it from the looks of thunder that Joan’s already considering braving the storm.” The rain beat down on the roof. “Here’s your soup, please don’t throw it at each other.”

Mycroft set a tray of two bowls and a small basket of bread on a pile of books near the stairs. He threw a look from Sherlock to Joan, taking in the situation and giving Joan another careful, judging gaze, and then descended.

“Sherlock,” said Joan, after he had gone. She paused, carefully picking her words. “You’re amazing. But I am not going to do anything here. If you want something, you have to come and get it. I will not resent you if that never happens. I am not waiting for you, and if someone else comes along, well...” probably, she would turn them down, too. Sherlock seemed too big, too important, to cut off. Even though she was clearly going to be nothing more than a friend. “But I am interested.”

There was a long silence, damaged only by the weather outside. Sherlock had her fingers steepled in front of her, elbows resting on her knees, legs crossed beneath her, staring intently at the papers on the desk. She was still in her school uniform, having hung her black jacket up as soon as she got into her bedroom. Her dress fell across her lap in a puddle.

There was a tapping on the glass by the tree outside, and Joan waited for Sherlock to decide.

 Sherlock said nothing, only got up and walked across the room to the tray. She picked up a bowl and offered it out to Joan. Penance, for her sins.

“Sometimes, I am very good at understanding people. And other times, I am not very good at all.” She sat back down at her desk with her bowl of soup, the garlic bread resting cautiously between them on a stack of books. Whatever had nearly happened between them had gone.

Sherlock tapped the side of her bowl, impatiently. Something was frustrating her.

“I did not realize you enjoy men, also.”

“I only told Brad. And Sylvia, now, I guess. It’s no big deal, really.”

“But I didn’t know. I was wrong.”

“Sometimes it happens,” said Joan mildly.

“Have you had many boyfriends?”

“Have you?” Sherlock gave her a withering look. “Many girlfriends, then?” Sherlock was silent a second.

“A bit busy for that kind of thing.”

“I see,” said Joan, and a weight unclenched itself from her, and she found, as she ate, that she actually really liked pumpkin soup.

Joan found a book to read, and settled down amongst Sherlock’s pillows while she sat at her desk and filed through papers and tapped wildly on the side of her notebook. Occasionally she made a sigh of frustration, but gave no explanation to Joan.

Then power went out, and Sherlock swore.

“Mycroft!” she bellowed. There was no response.

“Do you have candles?” asked Joan. Remembering the room was all paper, she added, “If you do, you almost definitely should not. Not that it matters, I’m absolutely exhausted. Where’s the spare room?”

“Use my bed.” The voice came from across the room and Joan turned to follow it.

“Huh?” Sherlock flicked on a torch, showing her to be standing on her armchair next to her wardrobe, a box in her other hand.

“If you want to sleep, use my bed. There’s room enough for two.”

“Sherlock,” said Joan carefully, “I appreciate the gesture, but when someone tells you they are interested in you, most often you do not reject them and then invite them into your bed.” Sherlock shrugged.

“I’m going to go make Mycroft check the fuse box.”

She disappeared down the stairs, taking the light with her.

Slowly, uncertainly, Joan unbuttoned her dress and tossed it over to where she thought she’d left her shoes and socks. She couldn’t remember what underwear she was wearing, and hoped it wasn’t too embarrassing. She hadn’t had PE that day, so at least it wasn’t a sports bra. Despite the sports, Joan was never going to be one of those lesbians.

The sheets were the kind of rough that meant they hadn’t been washed in a while, but the pillows were soft and smelled slightly of Sherlock, which Joan now realised was tinged slightly with cigarette smoke. Joan had never seen Sherlock smoking, but she was too tired to bother at the smell, and merely sighed and nuzzled herself into a comfortable position to sleep.

There was a weight on the bed and she moaned a little, feeling Sherlock move the sheets and lie down next to her, not touching.

“No electricity at all?”

“No.” Sherlock sighed and Joan felt her roll over, moving the blankets until she was comfortable. Joan moved her arm so that it was stuck under her head, and was glad that she was facing away from Sherlock.

“I’ve never had a sleep over before,” said Sherlock.

“Not even when you were little?” Silence met her question. Joan tried again. “Weren’t you at boarding school? Isn’t that like a sleep over every night?”

“I had my own room. I didn’t get along with the others.” There was a story there that Sherlock wasn’t telling.

“What happened?” asked Joan. There was the quiet hush of steady breathing, and Joan was worried that she’d crossed a line, until Sherlock spoke.

“People don’t like me, as a rule. I don’t have friends. Nothing spectacular happened,” said Sherlock, too quickly for it to be the truth, “but someone broke my arm, trashed my room, stole my things. Mycroft came to find out what was happening. He took me out of there, told me it was for my own good.” She shifted in the bed, uncomfortable. “I’ve never run away from anything before.”

It wasn’t the whole story, Joan knew, but she wasn’t going to push. She breathed in the pillow and stretched a little.

“Do you smoke?”

“Yes. Is that going to be a problem?” Joan thought of her parents, who smoked, and Harry, who promised he would quit, and her exes, who had tried to get her into the habit, and realized that everyone who had ever let her down had smoked.

“Maybe,” she said, honestly.

“Mycroft buys them for me. It’s a compromise.” She didn’t explain what the compromise was for, and Joan fell asleep to the raging wind and the soft breathing of Sherlock beside her.


	11. Chapter 11

The rain pattered on the roof gently, and Joan stretched out, only to recoil sharply at the cold sheets around her. Huddling into a ball, she twisted her head to see Sherlock perched on her armchair in a dressing gown and grey pyjamas. 

“What time is it?”

“Just gone eight.” Joan groaned and tried to curl tighter. “I would have thought you were used to this time of day.”

“I am. When did you get up?”

“The power came on about five am.”

“You’ve been up since then?”

“There were things to do. There’s a case.”

“A case?” asked Joan, giving in and sitting up, realizing too late that she wasn’t wearing proper clothes. It didn’t matter either way. Sherlock scarcely glanced at her.

“A man bought earrings for his wife. They were stolen property, which he didn’t know. The question is, who stole them, and how?” Joan blinked, wondering what happened to the quest for information on potoroos. She rubbed her eyes. Nothing clever to offer came to mind.

“The man is clean?”

“Definitely. I doubt he had the gumption to steal from the grocery store, let alone the Packers.” Joan couldn’t remember anything about earrings on the news, but then, Kerry Packer was a name that only vaguely registered with her. Deciding that was the extent of her crime-fighting career, she stretched her arms, yawning widely.

“What’s for breakfast?”

“Huh?” Sherlock had already turned back to her piles of paper.

“Food one typically eats in the morning?”

“Kitchen,” said Sherlock absently, not looking up as Joan got out of bed, her mint green bra not matching her bright red underwear in the slightest. At least they didn’t have holes, she thought, as she pulled on her school dress and went downstairs. The kitchen was empty except for the cat, who sat on a barstool staring at Joan as she explored the kitchen. Finding nothing that could be labelled breakfast food, she made herself a cup of tea and decided that, plus biscuits, would have to do.

By the time she made herself back up the two flights of stairs to Sherlock’s attic, the tea was cool and Joan was cold again. She got back into bed, and since Sherlock didn’t complain she sat comfortably warm, scattering crumbs on the quilt.

“I should go home.” The words didn’t leave her lips easily, but Sherlock was clearly settled in for the day.

“Must you? You can use my desk to do homework. I have books to read. I, uh,”

 _‘...am not very good at entertaining’_ , finished Joan, but she did say it, and did not mind. Together, their morning was quiet, interrupted eventually by Joan’s grumbling stomach. As food was not a big concern to Sherlock, Joan insisted, and they went to a deli for pies. The roads were littered with leaves and twigs, and afterwards Joan went home, smiling and calm. 


	12. Chapter 12

 “What the fuck, Joan?” The rage slapped her in the face and Joan, bewildered, set her bag down on one of the tables in the common room and looked at Allison.

“Huh?”

“You didn’t come to my party. Or my dinner.”

“Sorry.”

“I fucking rang you, and you weren’t home.” Joan stared at Sally for help, but Sally said nothing. Cassie stood behind, with Tyler at her side. They were silent behind the rage on Allison’s face. Joan didn’t quite understand why Allison was so incensed. It was just a party.

“And then I got here, and had to find out from fucking Molly that you spent the night with that freak Sherlock!” Joan drew in a breath. She’d needed milk, and run into Molly at the shops on Saturday night, and had mentioned seeing Sherlock. “And after she ruined everything for Mandel.”

“She ruined everything for Mandel?” snapped Joan. “What about the part where Mandel was cheating on Sylvia?”

“Sylvia had it coming,” said Allison, dismissively. Joan felt a dark chill sweep over her.

“Sylvia is a lovely person who does not deserve that shit. And Sherlock is not a freak.” Her voice was low, and fast.

“Sylvia’s a fucking bitch.”

“Shut the fuck up, Allison,” said Joan.

“Oi, what’s with the language?” boomed Mr Aris from the common room door.

“Go talk to your bitch friend and psychopath girlfriend, I do not want to fucking see you again,” said Allison, ignoring Mr Aris. Joan rolled her eyes, yanked her bag and stormed out, brushing heavily past the teacher. She didn’t let herself relax until she was staring into her locker, hand holding on to the top, leaning in and breathing hard.

“Hey, Joan?” It was Mr Aris. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah... Just friend drama,” she forced herself to laugh, “You know how it can be.” His eyes were concerned.

“I’m glad Sherlock has a friend like you,” he said, and Joan knew he was telling her that he thought Allison wasn’t good enough for Joan. “If you need to talk, I’m here.” She nodded, and he walked away.

 -

Brad found her in the PE room, slamming the weights on the leg extension machine, face red and determined.

“What happened, J?”

“Fucking” _crash_ “Allison” _crash_ “happened.” _crash_

“Easy, there. Don’t break something.”

Joan sat still.

“What the fuck is her problem? She’s had a stick up her arse about me since last year. She had no right to bring it out on Syl or Sherlock.”

“This could be a good thing.” Joan scrubbed at her hair.

“How the hell is this a good thing, B?”

“J, you’ve needed new friends since forever. You just got rid of all of them all in one go. And made friends with Syl, who, quite frankly, will need new ones, too. And then there’s Sherlock, who’s a bit like a lost cat half the time who doesn’t realize she can put the claws away.”

“Allison called her a psychopath. I don’t think she can put them away.” Brad considered, and nodded.

“I’m sorry for your fight, but you know I don’t like that group.” He stood up. “We’re starting a game of basketball before we do theory, if you want to join.” Joan shook her head, and he left her alone.

Joan gave a sigh of exasperation and fell back onto the bench.

One week left, and then she could escape. It didn’t help that her father had come home a day early and her night had been filled with a screaming match between the two of them. He’d left early that morning with a suitcase, and as much as Joan wished it was the last she’d see of him, a small, guilty part of her wished it was her mother, not her father, always leaving. Her father, if he wasn’t provoked, was a calm and easy housemate. Mostly because she forgot her father was there. Her mother would take being left alone as a sign that Joan hated her, but paying her unwanted attention could cause the same rage to fly out. It was exhausting.

For once, she was glad of the dull way English was taught, because it meant she had to sit in her seat and say nothing, and Allison sitting in the back row with her friends couldn’t touch her. She fled, quickly, and had lunch with Sylvia, and Molly, and their little group of friends. She didn’t say much, letting the conversation wash over her, but Jason offered her half his piece of cake, and Molly spilled her rice and everyone laughed, and it was easy to just sit. They were easier to be around than her friends, but all that relaxation fled the moment she stepped into maths and found Mandel staring at her as though he would like to set her on fire.

Molly gave her a small smile and sat down, leaving Joan to take her place next to Sherlock. Who said nothing. She didn’t even look at Joan. Mr Aris passed out the tests, and gave Joan a little smile with hers. Sherlock took her calculator to her side of the desk, to where all her books were, and it stayed there the rest of the class. She left before Joan could even stand up, and she was left in the emptying classroom uncertain what had happened.

 -

Joan endured this treatment until Thursday, when she found Sherlock in the library at lunch and cornered her.

“You’ve been ignoring me.”

“We only talk on Fridays.”

“Fuck that,” said Joan, because she was frustrated, and that morning Allison had slammed into her with her shoulder on her way past, and none of her (ex)friends had said anything. “I slept at your house, I’ve been driving you home every night, we’re not just friends on Friday. And you’ve fucking spoken to me in class before.” Sherlock rolled an eye at her uncertainly.

“You don’t normally swear.”

“It’s been a tough week.”

“Which is why I’ve been staying away from you. I don’t want to make you lose more friends.” Joan stared at Sherlock.

“Allison’s a bitch. She was a bitch before you and I’m sure she’ll be a bitch long after you. If she lives that long.” She sat down on the couch opposite Sherlock and stared at the table. There was a book there: _Poisonous Plants of the Central United States_. Joan paid it no mind.

“I didn’t stop being friends with them because of you. They’re asses. It’s been coming for a long time.” Joan waited for something like ‘I don’t believe you’, or ‘You’re just saying that’, but Sherlock didn’t say anything.

Worried, Joan lifted her eyes to her face.

“I don’t have friends.”

“I know, Sherlock, but I want to be yours.”

“Not if you lose people.”

“That’s my choice to make.”

“And what happens when it becomes too much?”

“It won’t.”

Sherlock gave a great sigh, because she clearly didn’t believe Joan, and stood up, gathering the books up in one sweeping motion and tucking them under an arm. Joan watched her, wanting to circle her arms around her waist, wanting to pull her in tight, wanting to kiss her to let her know that she was never going anywhere, not ever. But Sherlock didn’t have friends, and if Joan was going to be the first, she wasn’t going to mess it up because of some godawful crush.

They sat next to each other in chemistry, as usual, but this time they shared a textbook and Sherlock quirked a smile when Joan gave an answer, to Jaime’s dismay at not getting there first. It wasn’t easy, but it was something. Joan was determined that it would become easy.


	13. Chapter 13

They went out to a Mexican restaurant, which neither of them was familiar with but Joan had driven past dozens of times.

“I’m coming along on the case,” said Sherlock. “I think it was done by the maid’s brother-in-law.” Joan wiped her mouth and didn’t ask how Sherlock knew anything about Kerry Packer’s maids, or their familial relations. “I’m not quite certain yet. The newspapers don’t provide much information and it can be very trying to dig through the libraries and public records. And Mycroft isn’t about to fly me up to Sydney.”

“Join the police force.” Sherlock laughed.                

“What, that incompetent bunch?”

“You’d get the resources.”

“True enough.” She wiped her mouth and set her napkin down. “Now, dessert, a movie, or back to mine?”

“Mycroft said I should never watch a movie with you.”

“Doing only what Mycroft says you should gets very boring very fast.” They smiled.

“I’m going away,” said Joan, abruptly. They hadn’t talked about the forthcoming holidays; the only comment to that effect had been Sherlock complaining about the essay she’d be set in English.

“To your lake house.”

“Yes. For the holidays.” Spending the two weeks at her home was not an idea that thrilled her. What had been bothering her was Sherlock’s reaction.

“I’m going to Sydney. Mycroft has to go, and he won’t leave me alone for that long.” There was another hint at the untold tale, there, but instead Joan sighed in relief.

“Ah. I’ll see you when I get back. There’s not a phone at the lake.”

“Of course.”

“I promise not to drown.”

“I didn’t say you would.” They looked at each other.

“I’m not abandoning you. When I come back I’ll still want to be your friend.”

“Of course,” repeated Sherlock, though she visibly relaxed.

Joan drove Sherlock home and they stopped outside her house. The radio kept playing a mournful Leonard Cohen song, and Joan hoped it didn’t mean anything.

“Happy Easter?”

“We don’t celebrate. But thank you.”

“I’ll eat some chocolate for you. Enjoy Sydney.” Sherlock nodded curtly, stepped out of the car, and the darkness folded around her. Joan watched her go, and wished she’d kissed her goodbye. As she drove away she felt as though she were leaving a piece of herself behind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set in the 90s, and I've decided that, either thanks to Mycroft's control, Sherlock's disinterest or a general lack of availability, the internet isn't a thing and neither are mobile phones, at least for Joan and Sherlock. Keep in mind that Joan isn't exactly from a rich family, and Sherlock is a much more tentative character than she will be when she gets older. Hence, newspapers and libraries, not Google.


	14. Chapter 14

Joan pulled into her driveway on the Saturday before school started, slightly sunburned from hours fishing and kayaking, and wondering if perhaps she should get a dog. Two weeks at the lake had not been all that lonely, what with the stack of books she had carted with her and the many already on the shelves, and there were a few families there for the Easter holidays that had been friendly enough. A dog would be a good companion, though, something to play with and to keep her company in the nights.

The front door was locked, even though her mother’s car was in the driveway. She went in, and noticed that her father’s coat was not there. He was on one of his trips, of course, having the same idea as Joan, to stay away from the house as much as possible.

Her mother’s keys were in the bowl, and her brother’s old sunglasses, one lens cracked, was still covered in dust and sitting crookedly on a pile of magazines. Nothing had changed.

“Hello?” she called, lugging her bag through the door and setting it down in the living room. It was empty, which was not strange, but the TV was on. There was a bowl of noodles on the table, half eaten, from the Chinese place down the road.

“Mum?” She went into the kitchen and found it was a mess, with two empty bottles sitting by the sink, which was filled with dishes waiting to be washed. Peering through the archway, she noticed her parents’ bedroom was dark. She sighed. Her mother was in bed, still, sleeping off whatever she’d done to herself last. Typical.

She ignored her, and went to unpack, throwing most of her things into the washing machine. Her homework she piled up neatly on her desk, ready to be taken to school on Monday. It was late when she finished hanging out the washing and tidying the kitchen. Her mother still hadn’t stirred, and Joan was getting hungry.

“Hey, Mum, I’m going to order pizza, want anything?” she said, walking into the bedroom and flipping on the light.

“Mum? Fuck, mum?!” she cried loudly as she tripped over her own feet in her rush to reach the side of the bed, grabbing her mother’s wrist and gripping it, feeling desperately for a pulse.

Her mother’s face was pale, and the sheets only half covered her body. She was wearing her old teal pyjamas, ugly flannel things that Joan had hated for years. Her left sleeve was stained with something, perhaps sauce. Her hair was unwashed and unbrushed; she looked exhausted.

“Mum, please wake up,” she sobbed, knowing it was too late, knowing as she rushed to the kitchen to the phone to call an ambulance that it was too late.

She sat on the bedroom floor staring at her mother as the paramedics came, not rushing because it was too late. Numbly, she told one of them her father’s mobile number, and she felt a warm hand, intended to be comforting, leave her shoulder. She shivered.

 

Left alone in the house, she considered calling Brad, or Molly, but eventually it was Sherlock’s number she typed into the keypad.

“Hello?”

Joan said nothing.

“Joan, I can hear you breathing.”

More silence.

“What’s happened?”

Sherlock sighed after another long pause.

“Come over.”


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock had a cup of tea waiting for Joan, and she didn’t say a word. Joan sat on Sherlock’s bed, and then crawled into it, not caring that Sherlock hadn’t invited her to do so. After a while, Sherlock closed her book, turned off the light and lay down next to her.

“Mum’s dead,” said Joan, eventually. She had spent the last three hours working her way up to speaking those words. Sherlock didn’t reach over to hug her, didn’t try to touch her at all. She said nothing.

“She was an alcoholic. She got angry all the time. She was the reason I didn’t want to stay at home over the holidays.”

“She’s why you don’t drink. And why you don’t like smoking.”

“Yes.”

They lay there a while longer.

“I didn’t even know she was dead. I thought she was just sleeping it off, like she always does. I did the washing. Fuck, I ate lunch while she was lying there, dead.”

“There was nothing you could do.”

“I know that. I know that, Sherlock,” she repeated, not wanting to snap at Sherlock. She felt numb. “She’d been dead for days. She probably went on a bender when my dad left. This is more his fault than his, and it’s not really the fault of either of us. But, fuck.”

Silence. Then, “I haven’t even called Harry.”

“Your father can do that, or you can, in the morning.” A hand slid across the sheets and found Joan’s, giving it a little squeeze before letting go.

“Why did you come to me?” Joan was still lying, eyes closed, unable to sleep. She had thought Sherlock had dozed off.

“You’re my friend.”

“You have Brad.”

“Brad is too... I needed you.” There was the shifting of a pillow as Sherlock turned her head to look at the shadow of Joan.

“Me?”

“I...” she began, but there was a catch in Joan’s throat and she paused to swallow. Keeping a lie from Sherlock was impossible, she knew, but she also knew Sherlock would be unable to deal with the fact that she loved her, and so would ignore it. “You’re not a terrible friend. Not always.”

**-**

“Joan?” It was a woman’s voice, coming from the stairwell. “There’s a phone call for you.” Joan rolled awake, unsurprised to see Sherlock in her dressing gown perched on her armchair. She got up and took the phone from the woman, who was wearing a neat blouse with a high-waisted office skirt.

“Joan?” It was her father.

“I’m okay, dad.” There was a long, awkward pause. “How are you?”

“I’m...” His voice petered out. Of course. Emotions were not to be discussed in their family. “I’d like you to come home, now.”

“Yes, dad.” He hung up. Joan handed the phone back to the woman, who said, “I’m sorry for your loss,” before walking back downstairs.

“I have to go,” she said to Sherlock, pulling on her shoes and jacket. Sherlock nodded, and looked almost as though she were going to hug Joan, only to think better of it before she actually moved. She showed her out. Joan pulled the cassette out, turning off the radio and driving in silence.

She knew it wasn’t her fault. She had always known that her mother would drink herself to an early grave.

That didn’t do anything to displace the ball of lead the size of her fist which had decided to take up residence in her stomach. 


	16. Chapter 16

 

 

 

 

Joan took the week off school.

Mr Steve was very understanding, and either Brad or Molly took notes for her. On Friday she considered ringing Sherlock to go out for dinner, but in the end, she couldn’t bring herself to. She watched TV with her brother, he with a beer, and her with tea. Eventually, disgusted at the way he was calmly working his way through the six-pack, she went to bed and had angry dreams. 

 

 

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

“Can you not?”

Joan was sitting in the driver’s seat, door open; Sherlock was standing outside the car. They were in the school parking lot, and Sherlock was smoking. Sherlock looked down at her, with all the wrong presumptions on her face.

“I really fucking need something, right now, but I can’t start. I really can’t fucking start. Can you please put that out?” Sherlock dropped it like it had burned her fingers, and stamped on it with the heel of her school shoe. Joan rubbed her face, nails dragging across her skin. She didn’t want to go to class, didn’t want to face people, didn’t want to deal with any of it.

“What’s up that you’re smoking, anyway?”

“I’ve got a test.”

The weekend had been awful, with a trail of people going in and out, her father being too polite and Harry not caring in the least. She had thought school was the lesser of the two evils, but now that she was here she wasn’t so sure. Three people had tapped on the window of her car to offer their condolences. Sherlock appearing and standing severely by the car had put an end to that, but Joan couldn’t escape them forever.

“It’s PE. You like PE,” said Sherlock.

“Yes.” She stared at the sky. It was too sunny. “Fuck.”

“It’s year twelve. You have to get out of that car eventually.”

“You know when I said you were a good friend?”

“Yes?”

“I take it back.” Joan got up, yanked her bag out, and slammed the door shut.

“You haven’t locked it.” Frustrated, she opened the door, pushed down the lock and slammed it shut again. Frustration was better than sad, she’d decided.

“You’re playing rugby today.”

“How could you possibly know that?” snarled Joan.

“I overheard Alex talking to your teacher.” Sherlock’s voice was mild, carefully taking no insult at the way Joan was behaving.

“Oh.” She breathed, carefully, focusing on the way her stomach tensed and her shoulders rose with the action, pushing away any real thoughts. “Rugby’s good. Very good. Lots of... aggression. I need that right now.”

“Yes. Come on, then.”

Sherlock led her to the girls’ locker room.

“Will you be okay?”

“I’m fine, Sherlock,” she said with the same sneer she’d given everyone else over the last week. Sherlock’s face froze and closed down. “Sorry.”

“Quite alright,” said Sherlock with a stiff twitch of her lip. “I’ll see you in maths, unless you want me to go to home group.”

“No, I’ll probably be hiding in the library. Thanks. See you.” Sherlock gave a small smile and left her to change.

**-**

Sherlock was waiting in the changing room, sitting on one of the narrow benches, when Joan stepped out of the cubicle after PE.

Lauren and Naomi insisted she get changed in there, and she complied, understanding their reasons. So it was with surprise that Joan stepped out to see Sherlock sitting there and Naomi tying her shoelace, Lauren at the mirror fixing her hair. Joan looked from Sherlock to the girls, and decided it wasn’t worth the bother. Sherlock didn’t appear to check out anyone, ever, anyway. Joan had been nearly naked around her often enough to know that.

“I thought I wasn’t seeing you for a bit.”

“I came to tell you Mr Steve wants to see you.”

“Ah.” Naomi through her a look of sympathy, same as she’d been giving her all morning. The boys had followed Brad’s lead in the game, tackling Joan was roughly as ever. Strangely, that had been more comforting than most anything anyone else had done.

“I’ll walk you.”

**-**

“Miss Watson.”

“Hello.”

“Please, take a seat.” They sat, Mr Steve behind his desk, which was angled so that Joan wasn’t quite opposite, and it felt less formal than the office of the school principal perhaps should be.

“I presume you want to know how I am?”

“I would like you to be sure that I, and all the staff, are willing to do what we can to help you. If it were any year other than your senior, I might encourage you to take a little more time...” Joan cut him off.

“That won’t be necessary. I think school is the best place for me right now.”

“I’ve spoken to Mr Aris, your maths teacher, and he said he’s willing to grade your formative tests, if necessary. Miss Wright said that you don’t have a major essay due for some time, but she is going to talk to you about that in her class.”

“I’ll be alright,” said Joan, and Mr Steve eyed her, carefully.

“You have an appointment with the counsellor after lunch. Mr Aris is willing to allow you to skip class.”

“I’d really rather not. Can I change it to tomorrow? I have a free after recess.”

“I’ll arrange it for you.” Mr Steve smiled and laid his hands flat on the desk. “There’s something else I’d like to ask you, if it is not too much bother.”

“Go ahead,” said Joan, because she was sitting in the principal’s office and her mother had died a week ago and she wasn’t sure what else could happen that would bother her.

“You are friends with Sherlock, I understand.” He had seen her say goodbye to Sherlock at his door.

“Yes.”

“I take it you may know something of what happened prior to her enrolling in this school?”

“Not in as many words. She does not care to talk about it.”

“Then I will not breech that privacy. Are the other students treating her well?” Joan said nothing. “When it comes to Miss Holmes I have been assured by her brother that it is best to err on the side of caution, and it is better to know too much than too little. If you say something against a student that is found false, I will not hold it against you, but all of us here at Hartswood would really rather that an incident similar to what occurred at her previous school never happen to any of our students.”

“A few students have called her a psychopath, and a freak. But there has been nothing other than name-calling. Mr Aris is aware of some of it.”

“I will speak with him, then. Can you tell me the names of the students?” Joan hesitated, and Mr Steve passed a notepad and a pen over. “Write them down, perhaps, if that is easier.”

“Nothing has happened,” said Joan, uncertainly. “There’s no love lost between us, mind, but...”

“I understand. As I said, if you are wrong, I shall not punish you for it. This is just a precaution.” And cigarettes were a just compromise.

Joan wrote down some names, starting with Allison and Mandel, managing to make her scrawl somewhat legible.

“Thank you,” said Mr Steve, taking the paper and pen and scanning the names.

“Is that all?”

“Yes. I’ll send someone with the new time of your appointment with the counsellor.”


	18. Chapter 18

Everyone was overly eager to step around Joan, and even Allison and that group left her alone, but Joan could hear the whispers, or imagined she could. It exhausted her, and she withdrew more than she had before, avoiding even Molly and that new group of tentative friendships.

The treatment lasted all week, and into the next. No one knew how to act around someone whose mother had just died. It took Filip cutting off Daniel’s rattail in tech to wash over everyone’s concern. Then Allison knocked Joan’s open pencil case out of her hand, scatting pens across the hallway, and it was back to normal.

In primary school, Joan had been bullied, but in high school she’d been determined to not be part of that crowd. She’d joined in at sports, had made friends with the right people, had been interesting enough by being apparently gay that everyone had found her fascinating, but she’d never dated anyone from school, so she was considered safe. She’d brought alcohol to parties by raiding her mother’s stash, had worn the right clothes and had kept her head down. Things had worked.

Her younger self would be appalled that now, only a few months shy of graduating forever, she was back in the same position she’d been in so long ago.

Joan went to the PE shed to lift weights. She’d slacked off over the holidays, and was dreading going down to the smaller weights again. Brad met her there, playing terrible music and ready to spot her.

They didn’t talk.

Brad had been awkward about her mother’s death, knowing that Joan didn’t care for overt displays of emotion and not knowing how else to respond. He’d lent her books and gone running with her, making sure he was always on hand for anything she needed, ready to back her up with a witty remark if someone said something not quite right. He’d been the first to run into her during that game of rugby on her first day back at school, and so, in PE at least, people had copied his lead and treated her normally.

It wasn’t much, but she understood he didn’t know what to do.

It helped. 


	19. Chapter 19

“Are you sure you know how to do this?”

“I am a genius who is getting perfect marks in all her classes, learning a fourth language and could be first violinist in the Berlin Philharmonic. Of course I know how to fry eggs.”

Joan dubiously watched her from her perch on the kitchen bench, next to the toaster. It was Saturday morning, and Joan was feeling better. Not perfect by any stretch, and she knew she’d try to stay at Sherlock’s until late in the evening, because home was too empty and too clean without her mother there, but she was better, and enjoying watching Sherlock burn their breakfast.

It spoke to how worried her friend was, how much she was trying, that she was even here, in the kitchen, with a half dozen eggs and a fry pan and a loaf of bread. It was more food than Joan had seen in Sherlock’s house that wasn’t pre-packaged. Mycroft appeared to eat out a lot; so did his sister.

“I do want to be able to eat that,” said Joan as Sherlock scraped burned bits from the bottom of the pan and mixed it together with the uncooked tops. The look of firm concentration on her face was nearly more than Joan could stand, and she felt guilty, as she often did, for feeling even that slight bit of pleasure at watching her beautiful friend ruin breakfast. Especially while the dirt was still settling over her mother’s grave.

“Look after the toast, this’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, sure.”

She slipped off the bench and went to the pantry, searching for tomato sauce to cover the taste. She could ask Sherlock where it was, but Sherlock wouldn’t know. The few times she’d needed something from the kitchen Joan had watched her searching frantically through all the cupboards until finally alighting on what she’d wanted. It was easier to look for herself.

“There, see! Marvellous.” Sherlock tipped the egg on top of poorly buttered toast and smiled at Joan. Joan wanted to laugh, and wanted to cry, because the meal seemed so pathetic but Sherlock was trying so hard. She wanted to kiss Sherlock, slow and gentle, there in the kitchen, for how hard she was trying.

She gripped the bottle a little tighter, Sherlock raised an eyebrow but said nothing, and they were just friends, again.


	20. Chapter 20

Despite the fears of her teachers and the counsellor, Joan’s schoolwork didn’t suffer. Without her mother at home yelling at the TV or demanding that Joan go pick up a new bottle of milk, even though the old went off before it was even half used, she could do more. She woke up early, went running in the cold mornings, showered in steam, and didn’t have to escape to the lookout for peace and quiet before school started.

Allison bothered her less, because Joan had gotten good at escaping, and Alex and Molly seemed to have made it their mission to protect her.

Sherlock was mostly absent from her life in school, but everyone knew they were friends. When something happened, if Sherlock said something or someone said something about Sherlock, the teachers or students found Joan, who spoke to Mycroft on Friday nights. They both knew Sherlock listened in, but their kept their voices hushed all the same.

More things were happening. Someone had thrown paper at Sherlock’s back; Sherlock had skipped class; someone had ratted on Sherlock’s smoking; Sherlock had set someone’s book on fire.

Joan still didn’t know what had happened, and hadn’t asked, but the way Mycroft insisted on hearing even the tiniest detail about Sherlock’s life bothered her. Suggesting that he ask Sherlock about her day was pointless. She’d just lie. Anyhow, Mycroft’s concern was endearing, if a little odd, and Joan felt worried for her friend even though she didn’t know why.

Joan tolerated Sherlock’s smoking, using it to gauge Sherlock’s day. Occasionally, she wanted to press to know why she smoked, but the scars on her arms and Mycroft’s incessant questions kept her from asking. So she’d stand by Sherlock while she knocked out a fag and lit it, her face calming at the first drag.

She smoked more near tests, or before English, or when there was some crime she was trying to figure out. When Joan had asked, why English, Sherlock had told her that she didn’t understand why anyone did anything, why poetry was important or why Shakespeare mattered. It got on her nerves, and she needed the cigarette to calm down just from thinking about it all.

It was technically not allowed, and both of them were under eighteen so it was illegal, but Mr Steve turned a blind eye. Even he knew that there were things worse than cigarettes.

Joan still didn’t know what the compromise was for. She still didn’t ask. 


	21. Chapter 21

The art room was a mess. It was always a mess. Between Claire painting the walls with dripping handprints, declaring excitedly that zombies attacked, Jason in the corner shaving determinedly away at a block of wood, and the various paints, papers and items of clothes flung about, Joan was put in mind of Sherlock’s room, albeit more artsy and less mad scientist.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” repeated Sylvia for the hundredth time.

“I’m not a prude,” said Sherlock. Her eyes swept the room, taking in every activity, every person, every aspect, all in a second. Joan tore her eyes away from the taller girl, and looked at Sylvia.

“So, how do you want us?”

“Well, uh, can you take off your dress? And go stand over there by that black sheet. Sherlock, do you mind doing the same?” Rolling her eyes at Joan, Sherlock unbuttoned her dress deftly and let it drop to the floor. Focusing intently on a spot above Claire’s head, Joan unbuttoned hers and draped it over a chair.

“Shoes, too,” said Sylvia, and they complied. Sherlock shivered, and Joan laughed.

“What is this for, exactly?” asked Sherlock.

“Art!”

“Yes, but what?” repeated Sherlock. Joan wasn’t fooled, she could see the curl of her lip and the dance of her eyes. The art room had that effect, as though everything were somehow easier and freer. The music helped.

“Human bodies, differences, normal-people bodies, that kind of thing. And you two are, well,” she gestured at them, Sherlock, scrawny and pale with scars at the crooks of her elbows, Joan, thick and muscular, her shoulders dark with sun.

“Perfect,” finished Sherlock, dryly.

She stood easily in the room, despite the large windows opening out onto the courtyard, and the half a dozen people working around them. Joan’s eyes swept over her, the slight pot-belly, the scrawny arms, the slight scarring of stretch-marks on her hips and her buttocks, curving away to hide behind dark purple underwear. She felt Sherlock watching her, and she quickly stepped away, to the large black cloth that had been hung from a wall to drape over a table.

“Here, then?”

“Yes. Hmm.” Sylvia moved them about, unashamedly grabbing their arms or twisting their hips and shoulders to face a particular way. The air was cold, and Joan felt goose-bumps prickling along her skin. Something touched her, and she shied away before she realized that it was Sherlock, behind her, and she relaxed.

“Right. Yes. Good, stay.” Sylvia dashed to her camera, as though they were going to disappear the moment she turned her back.

“Nice underwear,” commented Sherlock, out of the corner of her mouth. “I haven’t seen those before.”

“Shut it,” hissed Joan, suppressing a grin.

_Click_

“No, smile, that’s good!” called Sylvia.

“Nice tan lines, too.”

_Click click_

“You’d have some, if you ever dared go outside.”

“Why would I bother when I have everything I want inside where it’s safe and warm?”

_Click_

_Click_

“Girls, can you please be a little happier. You were laughing before, do that again.” Sherlock stroked Joan across her ribs with a long finger, who shivered and laughed, to a few more clicks of the shutter.

“Goddamnit,” cried Joan, trying her hardest to stay in the pose Sylvia had put her in while keeping away from Sherlock’s advances.

“Oh, feel free to move, if you want,” said Sylvia, picking up the tripod and moving it slightly. Taking that as enthusiastic encouragement, Joan turned and jabbed roughly at Sherlock, who twisted away easily and ruffled Joan’s hair. The camera clicked.

Joan stood up from where she had been seated and spun, grabbing Sherlock’s hips in her hands and lifting her, holding her up above her, not sure what she was doing but laughing loudly at the shock on Sherlock’s face. Then she overbalanced, and they tumbled down in a mess of limbs onto the ground. Sylvia loomed above them, camera going.

“You two are brilliant,” she said, “I can’t wait to develop these, it’s going to be excellent.”

**-**

Sleeping in bed that night, together, Joan wondered at their friendship, and how easy it had become, yet how little she knew. Sherlock was sprawled face down so that one arm draped across Joan’s chest, just above her breasts, rising and falling with every breath. She reached up, gently, and brushed her thumb over Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock’s fingers coiled, then stretched out, and Sherlock sighed tiredly.

“Go to sleep, Joan. If I am, you can.”

Joan knew Sherlock normally didn’t sleep much at all, and to make up for going to bed early when Joan was there, she would be up before dawn.

“Shut up. I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

“I’ve told you I’m attracted to you. And yet you’re happily in bed with me, me in nothing but my underwear. And you’re touching me.”

“I’ll alert the presses of this scandal,” said Sherlock, dryly. She didn’t move her arm. 

“I like you.”

“I know.”

“I mean. I’m glad you’re my friend”

“Whatever,” she groaned into the pillow, but Joan knew it meant more to her than that, and she smiled in the dark. 


	22. Chapter 22

There was a meeting called to discuss the formal. Joan contemplated not going, until someone had said it was mandatory, and Brad had shuffled into the large drama room alongside her, grumbling all the way. Molly told him to shut up.

“That’s all good and well for you to say, I can’t even bring my fucking boyfriend.”

“Maybe we can talk about that.”

“Fuck that. I don’t want to turn this into some kind of homophobic mess.”

Brad was contemplating breaking up with his boyfriend, uncertain if he wanted to but he wasn’t particularly happy in the relationship. There was nothing wrong, he’d told Joan, but things just weren’t right. It was making him more bitter than usual, but Joan couldn’t argue about the meeting. She loathed being pointed out as the odd one in a crowd of straight people.

They sat down all in a row, Sherlock hurrying in late with wind-swept hair and a thick black jacket on over her winter uniform.

“Geez, Sherlock, cold much?” asked Jason good-naturedly, moving over so that Sherlock could sit next to Joan.

“Do I really have to be here?” asked Sherlock. Too loudly, it seemed, because Sally spun around in her seat and glared. Sherlock rolled her eyes and the meeting began.

Like Brad, she knew she likely couldn’t bring a date if she wanted, but unlike Brad, the only person she wanted to ask was not on the cards. She looked sideways at Sherlock, her pale wrist poking out from her jacket. There was a hair on the sleeve, and Joan reached over the pluck it off, her fingers gazing Sherlock’s hand.

Joan was certain she was the only one feeling the electricity there.

“I shall now hand over to the Formal Committee, who will answer any questions,” said Mrs Winston, after a brief rundown of what plans there were in place already. Molly’s hand shot up, and Brad groaned.

“Molly, it’s okay.”

“Shush,” said Molly, as Mrs Winston’s gaze fell on her. “I have a question,” she said loudly. “I want to know why some people can’t bring the partner they want.”

“Anyone can bring whoever they want. The tickets aren’t closed, this isn’t America.”

“I mean, as a date.” The teacher coughed, but Sally interrupted. Of course Sally was on the committee.

“We want to make sure the formal is a safe environment for everyone, and some students, and parents, have expressed concern at, well, abnormalities.” Joan found herself groaning, and saw Brad shuffling lower in his chair. “For that reason, we ask that the only dates that are brought are not gay.”

“I think that is absurd!” cried Molly, and there was a loud chattering from the cohort.

“Shut up, Molly,” hissed Brad. The teacher shushed everyone, and Joan found herself speaking into the silence.

“How the hell am I an abnormality?”

Just a few months ago Sally had happily asked if Joan had found anyone over the summer break, and had demanded details about the mystery girl Sally had been certain existed.

“We just want everyone to be comfortable...”

“I’d be comfortable if I was considered normal.”

“We’re not all freaks, like you,” snapped Allison, and both Brad and Sherlock sat up straight, ready to defend.

 “Perhaps you should crawl back under whatever rock you come from,” said Sherlock, loud and cold.

“Maybe you should stop perving on the boys while they get changed.”

“As if they’d be so lucky. Since it appears to have escaped the attentions of your pathetic brain, I am not interested in men, and even if I were, I couldn’t give a damn about the poor specimens found at this school.” Jason made a noise that sounded like a whine, and Joan thought he meant it to break the tension in the air, but he was ignored.

“Ladies,” called Mrs Winston. “Can we bring this back to order?” The room fell silent and proper discussion began, but when Joan filed out, Sherlock just ahead, Tyler bumped into Sherlock with an unmistakable ‘freak’ hissed under his breath.

Sherlock’s face was carefully blank, and Joan wished she was better at reading her emotions.

That was the first of three incidents.

**-**

The next happened that night.

Joan was lying on Sherlock’s bed, rereading a collection of Oscar Wilde, and Sherlock was sitting in her armchair with a heavy book in her lap. The weather was cold, and Joan was wearing her pyjamas as well as Sherlock’s second-best dressing gown, with her feet curled under the covers. The cat lay at the end of the bed purring gently. Sherlock had tried getting rid of it, but Mycroft had yelled at her. Joan didn’t know its name, and Sherlock apparently didn’t care.

“Jason has a crush on you,” said Joan, absently flipping pages forward to _Lady Windermere’s Fan_.

“Oh?”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”

“I’ve informed you I am not good at people,” Sherlock looked up, “I am only aware of your feelings because you told me.”

“I’m telling you about Jason because I think he’ll try to ask you to the formal.”

“I informed the entire year level that I am not interested in men mere hours ago.”

“Jason is not particularly intelligent, but what he lacks in brains he makes up for in hope. Please be kind to him when you tell him no.”

“You could tell him no for me.”

“I suppose I could, but I am not a sounding board for you, Sherlock.”  

“Pity. You’d be useful.” Sherlock smiled, and Joan rolled her eyes.

“Does it bother you? When they call you names?” Sherlock stiffened, Joan could see that even from across the room.

“No,” snapped Sherlock, too quickly. Joan waited, feigning focus on the pages in front of her. “I’m used to it.”

“Boarding school?” asked Joan. It was the typical question she asked when Sherlock was unwilling to answer. Sherlock nodded. “Okay then.”

“I can see you’re dying to know.”

“If you don’t want to talk about it I won’t ask.” She wondered at the scars on Sherlock’s arms, and how skinny she was, and wondered what illness she’d had that had required so many needles. She wondered how she could endure being kept in the dark for so long.

“Just the same as if I don’t want a relationship you won’t ask. And if I don’t want breakfast you won’t ask.” Sherlock leaned forward. “When are you going to stop refusing yourself something you want merely for my sake?”

“You are my friend.”

“Is that what friends do? Is that what you do for Brad?”

“Yes.”

“Molly?”

“Yes.”

“Sally?”

“Even Sally, yes, I’d drive her to whatever party she wanted to get drunk at, and I’d bring her home, and make sure she was safely in bed with a bottle of water and a bucket in case she vomited, and not once did I want to get into her pants. That is what friends do.”

“I don’t understand your reasons.”

“Because that’s what friends do,” repeated Joan, exasperated at Sherlock’s inability to get it.

“You would ruin yourself for the sake of another person?” Joan pursed her lips.

“I would, if they were the right person.”

“You’re a fool.” The words slapped Joan in the face. “I don’t understand you.”

“I pray that one day you do,” said Joan, forcing her voice to remain calm and steady.

She closed the book and got under the covers.

“I’m going to sleep. Please don’t wake me when you decide to do the same.”

She knew that Sherlock wouldn’t understand her anger, and so would either poke at it or ignore her. As silence settled over the room it became obvious that it was the latter, and before she fell asleep Joan realized that was the first fight they’d had. It seemed pathetic, a tiny, insignificant thing to have fought about.

The guilt of wanting more from Sherlock burned somewhere within her, and she forced herself to remember the things she had done for other friends who she hadn’t had a crush on. That Sherlock didn’t understand emotion had always been obvious, she thought, as the last tendrils of waking left her, but she’d never realized just how deep that ran.

**-**

Sherlock was sitting in the same position when Joan woke. She got up only long enough to let her out of the front door, and as soon as Joan got home to find it empty she collapsed into bed, exhausted by the weight of her thoughts. It was dark out before she got up to exercise, shower and eat, her stomach rumbling angrily at her. Joan blamed her forgetting to eat on Sherlock’s influence, and rang Brad to meet at a pizza place down the road. He brought his friends, and the distraction was a welcome relief from the turmoil of the past couple days.  

**-**

After Friday, things at school got worse for Sherlock. They only happened in increments, nothing so severe that any one thing was the proper start of it all. Even at that age, different was strange and Sherlock was a dozen kinds of different all rolled into one. Mandel snatched Sherlock’s calculator from her desk and refused to give it back, and although Mr Aris told him off the back row sniggered and Sherlock’s face was twisted with anger. 


	23. Chapter 23

“Sherlock, come on.”

“I don’t want to.”

Joan rolled her eyes. They were both definitely late for class. She exchanged glances with Sherlock’s driver.

“I have to go to the airport and pick up some very important people. More important than little Miss Holmes,” he grumbled.

“Yeah?” asked Sherlock, unimpressed. “Take me along, I can meet them, see how important they are.”

“Not happening.”

“Why don’t you want to get out of the car?” asked Joan, trying a different tack.

“It’s English?” asked Sherlock, uncertain why Joan didn’t understand her reluctance.

“You’re very good with words, so that shouldn’t be a problem,” offered the driver. It was ridiculous that a student at a public school should have a driver, thought Joan, but it was also ridiculous that the student would refuse to get out of the car on one of the few brilliantly sunny days in the middle of June.

“It’s Othello.”

“Othello’s brilliant! Iago’s a bastard, Othello’s an idiot, what’s not to love?”

“It’s just so stupid,” whined Sherlock. Then, in a smaller voice, “and everyone calls me a freak because I don’t understand it.” 

“It’s Shakespeare. They’re all only pretending to understand it. Come on.”

“Shan’t.”

“Just sit in the corner, say nothing, and only respond if the teacher calls on you.” Sherlock didn’t move, and Joan could see the driver getting impatient. “At least get out of the car? Go and hide in the library, or smoke a pack behind the gardening shed.” Sherlock mumbled something. “Pardon?”

“I said, I don’t have any cigarettes.” Joan threw a helpless look at the driver, who rolled his eyes and fished inside his glove box.

“I’ll be expecting reimbursement.”

“Tell Mycroft, I’m sure he’ll understand,” said Joan, taking the pack. She felt a bit like she was luring a dog with the promise of a treat, but Sherlock got out of the car with her bag and her hair all a mess.

Joan wondered if she’d do this for anyone else but Sherlock.

Sherlock snatched the pack and lit one up, quickly and deeply breathing in. She didn’t cough. Joan glanced at her watch, and sighed. The smoke billowed into the cold air, and Sherlock relaxed, shoulders dropping and stance becoming softer.

“Are you ready?” asked Joan, finally.

“I suppose,” said Sherlock.

Joan walked with her all the way to the classroom to make sure she would get there. The teacher seemed about to tell Sherlock off, the stench of cigarette smoke strong and the clock ticking, when she looked behind her and saw Joan. Whatever punishment she’d been planning died, and the teacher gave Sherlock the handout and told her to go sit down. Joan got told off, instead, and Molly looked at her sorrowfully when it was over and she slid in beside her.

“What happened?” she mouthed.

“Sherlock,” responded Joan, not having the heart to explain further.

-

They skipped home group together, the two of them standing in the dirt behind the garden shed, Joan watching Sherlock with a cigarette between her fingers. Floating away in the tendrils of smoke was her hatred of English and her fellow students and all the world. Joan watched, finding nothing to say that would help.


	24. Chapter 24

Mr Steve called Joan back into his office to talk to her about Sherlock, after Sherlock’s textbook had been stolen and someone else had written “dyke” in big letters across her locker. Neither Brad nor Joan knew who, but they were both keeping a close eye on the girl, and on what other people were saying.

“I understand that Sherlock is not the only student who has, uh, particular tendencies...” he began, once Joan was seated across from him.

“Everyone has nearly always been very polite to Brad and myself regarding our ‘tendencies’,” said Joan, her mind still back with Sherlock, who she’d left in a corner of the library huddled with a book. Molly had claimed she had a paper to write and so had stayed nearby. Keeping an eye on her. Making sure nothing happened. School hadn’t been easy lately.

Sherlock’s skin seemed paler than usual, and she was thin, so thin. Joan worried she’d blow away if she went outside, disappear into the sky and never be seen again.

“I do recall a particular incident several years ago,” said Mr Steve. Joan remembered it. Someone had called Brad a faggot, and both Joan and Brad had beaten the group of guys. One of them had gone to hospital. Violence was never the answer, but sometimes it was close enough.

Joan and Brad had not exactly escaped punishment, but when further insults of that kind had disappeared from the school altogether in the following weeks it had been decided that, although their actions were not commendable, and any further altercations would be severely punished, it could be ignored. Mr Steve had an understanding with them. A part of Joan worried what would happen to the next generation of students when Joan and Brad graduated.

“I am not planning a repeat, if that is the question. If the question is about Sherlock, well, she is not Brad, or myself.” She cannot hold her own in a fight, is what Joan wanted to say. Mr Steve seemed to understand.

“I want you to be aware that I am keeping my eye on the situation.” Joan doubted it.

“Why am I here, and not Sherlock?”

“Sherlock does not take well to these kinds of conversations. I have spoken to her brother, and Mr Holmes told me that I should talk to you. Are you and Miss Holmes, uh...?”

“We are not dating. We are friends.”

“Very good,” he said, and cleared his throat. “I think that is all. Please keep me in mind should some other incident arise.”

**-**

Shaking her head at the conversation, Joan went back to class, sliding into her customary seat next to Sherlock, who eyed her, deduced nothing urgent had occurred, and went back to the numbers on her paper.

“What the fuck is with those holes on her arm?” asked Mandel to the room at large. He’d gotten bored with the set of problems and was leaning back in his seat, leering at the class.

Mr Aris had stepped out for a moment, and there was no one to shut him up

“Come on, Shelly, you can tell me.”

 Joan watched Sherlock curl her hand into a fist, her knuckles whiten. Sherlock didn’t like nicknames.

“What happened to you? You on heroin, Shelly? Smoke crack? Are you a crack whore?” sneered Mandel. Joan reached out to touch Sherlock, wanting to calm her.

“I bet you gave it good. How much are you, huh? Do you charge Joan?”

He threw his pen at her back, and all hell broke loose.

That was the third incident.


	25. Chapter 25

Joan drove to Sherlock’s house on Friday afternoon. It was the last week of the term, and she hadn’t seen Sherlock since that maths class. She’d tried calling, but there had been no answer.

The house was tall, stoic, and empty. Joan pounded on the front door, rang the door bell, even climbed the side gate and ventured into the garden. It was perfectly kept, with the grass free of leaves and a lovely outdoor dining area surrounded by pot plants. The spa in the corner had a cover pulled tightly over it. Peering in through the windows Joan could make out a sitting room she’d never seen before, beyond it the shadows of a dining table.

There were no noises, no lights, no wailing violin or skittish cat.

The house was empty.

She drove past every day for the first week of holidays, until there was a For Sale sign in the front garden and Joan realized it was no use. She had to give up. 


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's been reading I go all squealy so the cat gives me weird looks whenever I get a new comment or kudo so thanks to you all!

It was November, and Joan had finished her last exam. She drove home, having waved goodbye to her friends. Everyone had been so happy. The sun was shining, the weather was warm, and the radio was resolutely sticking to cheerful music.

She shut it off tiredly.

It felt like everything was over, even though there was still the formal, and one final presentation evening with all the parents. Joan wouldn’t go to that one, because her father wouldn’t, and it hurt too much to see him without her mother at his side. Without Sherlock to factor into the equation, Joan hadn’t gone to the effort to buy a dress for formal. There didn’t seem any point.

Home was empty, and dark, but it was mercifully cool. Harry was meant to be arriving the following week, but Joan wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t show. Since their mother’s death, no one had much talked. If someone had told Joan at the beginning of the year that her mother was what held her family together, she would have laughed.

She put a frozen pie into the oven and lay down on the couch in front of the TV. She couldn’t be bothered to walk the few steps to her room to find a video. John Burgess rambled on about prizes to be won on _Wheel of Fortune_. Joan stared at his moustache, willing it away.

The coffee table was devoid of everything except dust, and she hadn’t seen her father for weeks. Once, she had longed for lonely hours at the lake house, gently paddling through the water, the breeze in her short hair and feeling the sun darken her tan. Now, she always felt too lonely everywhere.

Fighting the constant urge to drive to Sherlock’s house, she made gravy to go with her pie, and a cup of tea. She considered going to the end of year party at Allison’s. With Sherlock gone, whatever Allison had against Joan had disappeared and even Sally had calmed down enough to start stepping around her when they had to pass by each other in the hallways.

It wasn’t enough. Sherlock’s house was empty. The For Sale sign had disappeared within a few weeks of it being put up, and no one had called Joan. Waiting by the telephone had made her feel pathetic, but it had never rung.

She didn’t know what to do. She’d spent the last three months working out how to keep going without Sherlock by her side.

The brochures from the army were on the table.

At least she knew what came next.


End file.
